


Hornblower and the Meridian

by Legume_Shadow



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Author Loves to Write Weird Fics, Crossover, Gen, OMGWTF, Power Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legume_Shadow/pseuds/Legume_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships.  When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.</p><p>Era: after Commodore, follows movie-verse up until Hotspur, cross-over with Pirates of the Caribbean</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011. All copyrights apply to the appropriate parties and no profit is being made from this fanwork.

“Ha-h’m.”

Bush tried his hardest to look indiscreetly at Hornblower when he heard Hornblower’s mutterings as the Commodore walked up and down the weather side of the deck. It was the Commodore’s usual hour-long solitary walks, and judging from the sand running in the glass, the hour was nearly over. Something had been bothering Hornblower ever since he appeared above the deck, but Bush was confident that whatever was bothering Hornblower, it would make itself known soon in either a discussion with the ships’ captains or action within the squadron.

He sincerely hoped that it was action within the squadron, even though they had been seeing action nearly every day since they had arrived in the West Indies nearly a month-and-a-half ago. Even after that lengthy amount of time to see action, the crew was still in high spirits, ready to take down any Frogs, but they had not seen any recent action in two days. Tactical discussion were something he did not mind, but even at this early hour, the stifling heat and humidity of the West Indies would make standing in a cabin incredibly hot and stuffy. It was against Bush’s grain to complain to the Commodore about the weather or any other trivial matters, such as a stuffy cabin.

“Sir,” asked Bush’s first lieutenant, “If we are not to see action today, shall I ensure that the others are well in their knowledge with regards to emergency flag signals?” First Lieutenant Turner was the current officer of the watch, and the two had been standing on the lee side of the deck for the better part of ten minutes.

“Do so, Mr. Turner,” replied Bush, giving the youthful-looking officer a very slight nod of his head. Their last engagement with the Frogs in the middle of the night had nearly cost them one of the squadron’s ships because of an incorrectly read lantern signal. Hornblower had not been happy about that at all, thus the squadron had been practicing signals since the engagement. “If we are not to see action today, we will also exercise and run the guns without powder for an hour during the afternoon watch.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Turner, a little bit too enthusiastically.

Bush could not hide the slight smile on his face at the officer’s enthusiasm. When he had been in command of the _Nonsuch_ and within Admiral Pellew’s flotilla, an engagement against several French ships had gravelly wounded the _Nonsuch_ ’s first lieutenant. When Hornblower had specifically requested Bush to command the _Meridian_ , young Turner had been recommended to him as a first lieutenant from Admiral Pellew’s own ship. Though not yet as brilliant as Lieutenant Mound, who had been also selected for this mission by Hornblower, Turner had proved quite a capable first lieutenant. Hornblower had even told Bush in an off-hand comment during one of the times they dined together during the month-and-a-half in the West Indies, that Turner had potential to be just like Mound.

That news had both surprised and pleased Bush for it was extremely rare to hear something of that nature from Hornblower’s mouth. If his Commodore was praising the crew and was happy with how they were performing, Bush was happy. Even with the many days on end of seeing action, there seemed to be no signs of the toll of battle in Hornblower’s eyes. It was as if the typhus that Hornblower had fallen to in the Baltic had given him a renewed strength down here in the West Indies. Bush was very pleased with that.

But right now, something was bothering his Commodore ever since the start of the hour-long walk. Bush knew better than to bother Hornblower, for their orders had been very strict.

Their orders, after Hornblower had revealed to them on their way down to the West Indies, were to intercept and destroy any ship that broke the West Indies Fleet’s blockade around several French colonial ports. There had been a slight emphasis on the destroy part, which told Bush that the Admiralty did not want to bother with hauling any prizes to port. That had put a slight damper in the crews’ spirits when they heard the news – none of them would be receiving any prize money. But with most of the crews fresh and new, the chance to see more action than any of them ever had, had counteracted the news of the no prize ships.

Six bells struck in the morning watch; the hour of non-disturbance that Bush ensured that his Commodore received each day was over, but a glance over at Hornblower showed that he was still lost in thought. Hornblower’s head was still slightly bent down in deep thought, and his pace was quite sedate and not the usual contained enthusiasm that normally defined his gait.

Bush pushed slightly away from the railing as he gazed around his ship. The _Meridian_ was a thirty-six gun frigate; built with a shallow draft for speed – a fine ship indeed for the duty she was given. The other four ships of the squadron, the _Lawrence_ , _Ember of Winter_ , _Amaranthe_ , and _Pointe_ , made up the rest of the squadron. Both the _Lawrence_ and _Winter_ were brig-sloops and commanded eighteen guns each. Her commanders were first lieutenants Mound and rhys-Diar, respectively. The _Amaranthe_ and _Pointe_ , commanded by captains Rutherford and Vickery, respectively, were eighteen and twenty gun sloops.

The West Indies Admiralty clearly wanted a fast interceptor squadron when they had place the Commodore here to discharge the duties to the War. Bush had happily obliged the requested transfer from the _Nonsuch_ to this hit-and-run squadron, and he was glad of the change of pace after the Baltic.

“Captain Bush!” called Hornblower.

Bush immediately turned from the railing and strode over to where Hornblower was – his gait steady for the wooden leg had not been giving him any problems at all in this heat and humidity today. Before he stopped before the Commodore, Hornblower had turned and clasped his hands behind his back, looking as nonchalant as possible. Bush knew that the non-committal noise that Hornblower had muttered earlier was about to be voiced.

“Make signal to the squadron to summon all captains here at eight bells. There is much to be discussed with the dispatches that arrived last night,” said Hornblower.

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Bush and relayed the order to one of the midshipmen, who quickly scabbard up the appropriate flags. With a satisfied nod at the action, Hornblower turned and went below decks, back to his cabin.

A small cutter had arrived within the midst of the squadron late last night with some supplies, dispatches, and letters for the squadron. Letters had been distributed to the squadron and Bush had even received one from his sisters – a rarity. He knew that Hornblower had received secret orders, having seen a glimpse of the heavy water-proofed linen bundle sealed in wax, but it was odd that Hornblower was calling for a specific time for the captains’ meeting, when he usually called them within a half-hour of his request for the signal flags to go up. Bush did not think anymore of it – he knew that Hornblower would have his reasons if he cared to share them at all.

At eight bells, the captains were gathered in the Commodore’s day cabin. Charts graced the polished oak desk of the Commodore, along with all sorts of other relevant paraphernalia. The heavy linen casing that contained the secret orders was also spilled out to the side, with the grapeshot that had been in the linen off to the side, holding back one of the charts so it did not curl upon itself. Even though the Commodore’s back was to the stern’s windows, the sun was bright enough to light the entire cabin that the shadow cast was not interfering.

“We have been given orders to sail to a location marked on this chart,” Hornblower began without preamble while gesturing to the chart sitting on top of all others, including what looked like several leaflets of letters from the Admiralty. The chart looked very folded and creased, but clearly there was a marked area near the lower left central area, though no coordinates marked the sides of the map. In fact, as Bush took a closer look at the chart, there was absolutely nothing on the creased and folded chart except for vague outlines of what looked like to be land marks versus the open space where the marking was.

“At precisely two bells in the forenoon watch, we will set sail to this area, where at approximately three bells of the afternoon watch; we should arrive at this location,” said Hornblower. “We are to pick up a passenger from this place and transport this passenger with all haste back to England.”

“Your pardon, Commodore, but would it not be prudent to send only one ship for this mission? Do not the Admiralty need the rest of the squadron to continue to intercept the French?” asked First Lieutenant rhys-Diar.

“It would,” agreed Hornblower, “though however, the Admiralty has informed me that there have been sightings about a month ago, of French flotilla coming from the coasts of the Malagasy Republic (Madagascar) towards the Atlantic. The Admiralty has placed the utmost importance of keeping this passenger alive, which is why the squadron will be sailing to this location and to England. We have been given strict orders to avoid any entanglements with the French or any others at all possible.”

Bush caught a couple of the captains glancing at each other and he knew that they, like him, had one thought in their minds. What was this mysterious passenger they were picking up, carrying that warranted such extreme measures to be taken by the Admiralty? He was also puzzled as to why such precision on time was being emphasized, but it was another of the captains who voiced that question.

“Sir, what if we do not make those times you have indicated?” asked Captain Rutherford.

“We will. The winds are good today and we should have no trouble arriving at our destination on time,” said Hornblower. Hornblower had an absolutely confident look about him that Bush could not find the heart to persist in asking the Commodore to answer the still unanswered question about the rendezvous time. They would make the rendezvous time.

“Do any of you gentlemen have any more question regarding our orders?” asked Hornblower. There was a general shake of the captains’ heads ‘no’, and Hornblower continued, saying, “Formations for the squadron en-route to the location will be as follows: _Lawrence_ will be leading the squadron, with the _Winter_ following her. Three points off the _Winter_ ’s larboard bow will be _Pointe_ , and opposite on starboard bow will be _Amaranthe_. _Meridian_ will follow as a sweep. Should we become engaged against any ship, the _Lawrence_ will sail ahead and pick up our passenger. Mr. Mound, if you would please commit these coordinates to memory.”

Hornblower moved aside and lifted the creased leaflet only a small amount as Mound came over and took a very quick and sharp look at what was scribbled underneath before returning to where he originally stood. Bush could not even see what coordinates they were from where he was standing, but he harkened back to what Hornblower had said about the Admiralty and their need for this mission to be as secret as possible. Bush was confident that Hornblower had a plan – he always did, and it always worked.

The captains were dismissed just before the first bell of the forenoon watch, however, Hornblower stopped Bush from leaving with the others, asking him to remain. Bush remained silent as the door to the cabin closed as the last of the captains left, patiently waiting for the Commodore to gather his thoughts. The minutes ticked by as Hornblower continued to study a chart that had been pulled out after the captains had left, which had been hidden underneath the ones that had covered the table. Still Bush patiently waited, knowing that Hornblower would speak whenever he was ready.

“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, still studying the chart and did not look up, “if the squadron should fall behind, on my command, you will send the signal to the _Lawrence_ to get to the coordinates as fast as possible.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush.

“I know what you are thinking, Bush,” said Hornblower, this time looking up at him and holding his gaze with those sharp and calculating brown eyes of his. “The timing in which we will arrive at our destination is impossible to predict, given the weather. The Admiralty has given me strict orders to arrive at the precise time that I’ve stated to all of you. Any earlier and we could be mistaken for enemy forces. Any later, and they have stated that the passenger may die in enemy hands.”

“Sir, what kind of passenger are we retrieving?” asked Bush, his curiosity getting the better of him. What was the squadron getting into with these strange orders from the Admiralty?

“The Admiralty did not say, but I think it is a spy with very sensitive information for England,” said Hornblower.

 

* * *

 

The Caribbean trade winds were blowing at a good eighteen knots, enabling the squadron to make very good time on their way to the mysterious area marked only in a tiny ‘x’ on the creased chart from the Admiralty. Unfortunately, the eighteen knot wind was also making the water extremely choppy and rough, though the sun was fair blazing and there was not a cloud in sight. Bush knew that when they would finally start to head nor’east-ward after picking up their passenger, they would be fighting against the trade winds until they could catch the Atlantic westerlies.

 _Meridian_ ’s bow was bobbing up and down with as much grace as the frigate could command, but not as violently as it would have, had this wind been in a sea storm. To her both her starboard and larboard bow, both the _Amaranthe_ and _Pointe_ seemed to be heaving a bit with the waves, but were still going steadily forward. Both the _Lawrence_ and _Winter_ were cutting through the waves as if they were not there, being the fastest of the entire squadron.

Two bells struck in the afternoon watch. That was the time that Hornblower had said they would be arriving at the coordinates. During the journey, not once did Hornblower order Mound and the _Lawrence_ to sail ahead. Bush looked around; there was nothing but the deep blue ocean and white-capped waves to see.

“Land, ho! Two points off larboard stern!” shouted Midshipman Norrington from main topgallant mast nest of the _Meridian_.

The cascading sounds of quite a few telescopes being clicked open and extended towards the area where the midshipman had indicated, was quite audible. As Bush spied the small swath of land through his own, he noted that there was barely any vegetation on the island and only the center area of the island was covered in palm trees and wild ferns. There seemed to be a black speck on the island, but he could not quite tell if it was their passenger or not. The rest of the island was covered in a rather large swath of white sand. His telescope also showed him that it was shoal water around the island that extended at least a few hundred feet in all directions.

Bush looked away from his telescope towards Hornblower who had a very satisfied look on his face.

“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, quietly, “if you would raise our colors, we will see if that black speck on that island is indeed who we are transporting.”

“Aye aye, sir,” nodded Bush and to his second lieutenant, he ordered the man to run up the flag of England.

Hornblower was already looking through the telescope even before the flag was half-way up. Bush returned his gaze into his own telescope and saw the black speck start to jump up and down, waving tiny, spindly arms to get their attention. It looked like the person who was seemingly marooned on the island was, indeed their mysterious passenger.

“Captain Bush, have the _Meridian_ weigh anchor and make signal to squadron to circle the island and be on the lookout for the enemy. Launch the quarter boat to pick up our passenger. You and I will also be riding in the boat to meet our passenger,” said Hornblower.

Bush could see the outward stillness and calm surround the Commodore, but he knew that it was only there to contain Hornblower’s excitement. He also thought it was very clever of Hornblower to ensure that the person on the tiny, God-forsaken island was indeed, their passenger. Bush turned and bellowed the orders to his crew before summoning his first lieutenant.

The fresh-faced and eager young man came over, his excitement almost uncontained as Bush said, “Mr. Turner, should the French show themselves before we return, run up the appropriate flags, number of ships, and distance between us and them. Clear for action as soon as you see their guns out.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Turner, smartly.

Minutes later, the quarter boat was in the clear, light blue sea of the Caribbean and as soon as the shrill whistles from the bo’sun and bo’sun’s mate that indicated the departure of both the captain and commodore stopped, Hornblower settled himself next to Bush, who was sitting next to the sternsman controlling the rudder. As the oarsmen rhythmically rowed towards the shore, Bush could see the speck of the person on the island slowly grow larger, and surprisingly, moving back a bit, as if patiently waiting. That was a strange sight to see, for even with Bush’s limited experience with civilians, he would have assumed that the person would be eagerly jumping up and down, wanting to get into the boat as quickly as possible.

As the quarter boat hit the shallow waters and ran into the sand, unable to be rowed any further, Bush could see that they were still at least a hundred feet from the shore. Both Hornblower and he jumped out of the boat and trudged towards shore, and as they did, their passenger came forward to close the distance between them. Bush could hear the others in the boat jump off and pull the quarter boat to rest in the shallow water.

As they got closer, Bush could see that their passenger looked quite scruffy and unkempt, with the passenger’s hair stuck out in which ever way direction and only the longest of the strands held back at the nape of the man’s neck in a queue. The passenger, a man, and most fortunate Bush thought to himself, was wearing a dirty red linen shirt and dark trousers. Scuffed, shin-high boots covered the man, and he was carrying a very small sack that was producing an audible clink of glass – most likely it was meager provisions that were in the sack.

As they finally closed the distance and stopped, all of them standing in ankle high water, their red-and-towheaded passenger finally lifted his gaze up at them, having shielded his face against the sun as he had made his way off the island and into the water. Bush was startled to see a semi-youthful face staring out at both Hornblower and him, but even more startled at what issued from Hornblower’s mouth.

“Archie?!” whispered Hornblower in surprise.

“Horatio. Only the Admiralty would give such an important mission to such a person,” said the former fourth lieutenant of the _Renown_ , Archibald Kennedy, with a slight grin upon his tanned face. He extended a hand out to Hornblower who clasped it and firmly shook it. “Bush, glad to see you again,” said Kennedy in a cordial manner as Hornblower let go of Kennedy’s hand and Bush shook the former lieutenant’s hand in greeting.

Bush could not help but grin to see a former naval officer whom he had seen disgraced and dishonorably discharged from the Navy so many years ago after the incident with Captain Sawyer on the _Renown_ , alive and well again.

“Archie, what are you doing here?” asked Horatio, still apparently stunned.

“Not even a ‘hello’ or a ‘how are you’, Horatio?” said Kennedy in a good-natured tone as a wide smile graced his still-youthful face. “Still the same old friends, I see, though I must digress, it surprises and pleases me to see both of you so well off. Commodore Hornblower and Captain Bush. Well done…well done indeed.”

“Ah, Mr. Kennedy—“ began Bush, but Kennedy shook his head a bit.

“It is now Stanley Whittaker, at your service,” said Kennedy, giving the two of them a bow with a flourish of his hand that swept out, mimicking a hat taken off the head. Kennedy stood like that for a moment or two before straightening again, saying, “Only in public, of course. In private, I am still Archibald Kennedy.”

Bush glanced over to see a rare sight on Hornblower’s face. The man was quite perplexed. Hornblower opened his mouth once then shut it before opening it again, but no sound issued out of the mouth. However, after a moment, it seemed that Hornblower recovered his wits as he asked, “Why?”

“I, Stanley Whittaker, have information for England, Commodore,” replied Kennedy, formally and without the usual humor that graced his tone. “This information is vital to the war against Boney and may turn the tide for better or worse, even if Russia has joined in the war.”

“Then let us be off, Mr. Whittaker. His Majesty awaits the knowledge that you have acquired,” said Hornblower, giving a curt nod at Kennedy’s statement.

The three of them trudged through the water as quickly as they could until they reached the quarter boat. When they had all climbed in and settled themselves, the oarsmen pushed the boat back into deeper waters before clambering in and started to row back towards the _Meridian_. Bush was pleased to see that none of the flags that he had ordered Turner to run up in the event of French sightings were flying off the cables. It was a good sign and a gust of wind that suddenly blew by was also a good omen.

“The _Meridian_ ,” said Hornblower, pointing out the ship they were approaching. “She’s thirty-six guns and supported by two brig-sloops and two sloops. To her starboard, you can see the sails of the _Ember of Winter_ and _Pointe_. On the _Meridian_ ’s larboard, we have the _Lawrence_ and _Amaranthe_.”

“A frigate, two brigs, and two sloops – one would think you were running an interceptor group,” Kennedy softly commented.

“These are the fastest ships in His Majesty’s Caribbean Fleet, Mr. Whittaker. The Admiralty has given me strict orders to ensure that you return to England,” stated Hornblower.

“Very well,” replied Kennedy. “A fine squadron it is, Commodore. You have my thanks and compliments.”

Minutes later, they arrived at the _Meridian_ , and when the piercing whistles died down as the Commodore stepped aboard, Hornblower gestured to Kennedy to follow him and said, “Mr. Whittaker, if you would please, I believe that we have a few things to discuss.” To Bush, Hornblower said, “If you would please, Captain Bush, make signal to squadron for loose formation and make sail for England. When you are squared away, please meet us in the day cabin.”

“Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged Bush, as the Commodore and Kennedy made their way towards the stern. “All hands make ready to sail!” roared Bush. “Mr. Davenport, run the signal for loose formation and full sails.”

The crew sprang to action as the lieutenants, Turner and Groves, shouted for the manning of the sails and the standby to let them loose. Midshipman Norrington was watching over the hands at the capstan while Midshipman Smith was at the bow, watching for the anchor to rise from its watery grave. Midshipman Davenport was running up the signal flags to the other ships in the squadron while the final Midshipman on the _Meridian_ , Lachlann, was at the main mast’s nest, keeping a weather eye on the horizon.

“Mr. Harriman, set course for nor’-by-nor’west. Let us see if she’ll catch the wind before it turns against her,” shouted Bush as soon as the anchor was above the water and the sails had been let loose on the command of the lieutenants. Bush knew that the best way to catch a fast wind was first to go north-west until they could fight the shifting winds and hopefully catch the Atlantic westerlies that would carry them north-east and back to England.

“Aye, sir! Nor’-by-nor’west!” confirmed Harriman, the coxswain.

Within minutes, the ship was squared away, and with a full wind behind the _Meridian_ ’s sails for now and the rest of the squadrons forming a very loose box-like formation around their flagship, they were on their way towards England. Bush could not be more proud at how fast his crew had responded. One-and-a-half month of action had certainly trained his crew well and Bush had to give Hornblower most of the credit for the crew’s enthusiasm.

“You have the watch, Mr. Turner,” he said to his first lieutenant. “I will be in the Commodore’s day cabin with our guest and the Commodore should anything arise.”

Turner gave a nod, saying, “Yes, sir.”

With a steady gait that would put even an ordinary sailor who had both legs intact, Bush made his way to the day cabin. After knocking and hearing a faint ‘enter’, he went in and found Hornblower pouring over a chart and Kennedy standing to the side, staring out the stern’s windows. “Course is nor’-by-nor’west, sir,” he indicated to Hornblower who immediately marked the chart.

“If we can get the same trade winds we got to get here, and the westerlies are kind to us, then perhaps we can return to England sooner than usual,” speculated Hornblower.

Bush remained silent as Hornblower continued to study the charts, with an occasional ‘ha-h’m’ filling the silence until finally Hornblower rolled up a few of the charts and placed them aside. “Archie,” said Hornblower, a bit hesitantatingly, to Bush’s surprise. “How did you…” Words seemed to falter the great Hornblower, and Bush’s surprise was starting to turn into worry as he realized that Kennedy’s unexpected appearance had greatly rattled his friend. Bush also realized that even though Kennedy and Hornblower had been old friends since before their days aboard the _Renown_ , Hornblower wanted Bush’s presence in the day cabin to support his shock.

Kennedy turned from his viewing of the sea with a solemn look on his face and gestured towards the chairs surrounding the oak table, saying, “If we could sit, Horatio? I think this might become a very long story to tell.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hornblower, his tone stronger than before as they arranged themselves at one end of the oak table, clear of charts, compass, and other items that littered one side. Hornblower was sitting at the end of the table with Kennedy facing the door to the cabin and Bush facing opposite of Kennedy. This reunion of friends and shipmates was awkward at best.

“I heard that you were shipped out on the _Retribution_ only hours after your acquittal, Horatio,” said Kennedy and Hornblower mutely nodded. “The _Renown_ also left that night, did it not, Bush?”

“Indeed she did,” confirmed Bush.

“I still wanted to serve England even after I was discharged from service,” said Kennedy, spreading his hands out a bit. “However, I was barred from serving in any of the King’s armed service. I stayed in Kingston for at least a year, living on whatever I could before finding a kind blacksmith’s family to take me on as an apprentice. That lasted for a few years and in those years, delivering orders to many a people, I learned to listen to information being said freely from customers’ mouths.

“With the information I passed onto the Admiralty during the years, they finally employed me and sent me all over the Caribbean. I learned the languages and dialects of the Frogs, improved my knowledge of dialects of the Dagoes, and even picked up the curious accents of the Americans.”

Bush remained silent as Kennedy finished his tale and at that moment, Brown, entered the cabin, carrying a tray of food and wine. As the man laid out the small meal, Hornblower sat silently and seemed to study the glass with as much intensity as he would to a nautical chart. However, after Brown left, Hornblower finally took a sip of the wine before asking, “Who or why were you left on that God-forsaken island, Archie?”

“With all the ships needed to blockade the French ports, the Admiralty could only spare one ship to send me to the island with the promise that they would find a way to get the information I had back to England as soon as they could,” said Archie. “We carefully arranged the timing of the arrival of a ship that would take me back to England, due to the many French spies around the area. Had your squadron arrived any earlier or later, I was under orders from the Admiralty to ensure that my knowledge did not fall into enemy hands, even if you happened to be flying friendly colors.”

Bush saw Kennedy hold up a hand to forestall the inevitable question that was on his lips as the man said, “What I know is in my head. It cannot be written down for not even sinking the orders to the depths of the sea will erase and prevent the Frogs from retrieving it. None of the Admiralty or the Fleet know what I know – I only gave them enough just cause to sail me back to England. What I have is for the King’s ears only.”

Hornblower sat back and gave a reluctant nod at this admission, though Bush could see the curiosity burning in his friend’s brown eyes. “Well, Mr. Kennedy,” said Hornblower, “I will call a meeting of the ships’ captains soon and I will introduce you to them. We have heard of a French Fleet making their way towards the Atlantic from the Malagasy Republic’s waters. In the event that we do encounter this Fleet, we will need to transfer you to one of the faster ships.”

Bush thought that Kennedy would protest at such a sacrifice, but the man remained silent and only said, “I understand, sir.” Time had tempered the former lieutenant, Bush mused. He had no doubt that it was to be Mound’s ship that Hornblower would ensure that escaped the clutches of the French, should they encounter them.

“Thank you, Horatio,” said Kennedy, quite solemnly. “Thank you, Bush. I just hope that I can repay the two of you in the future for what you are doing for me.” The man took a sip of the wine before sighing and said, “I can give the two of you some information to justify the cause of this haste.”

“What be that, Archie?” asked Horatio, his tone familiar and not distant as it had been earlier, as he leaned forward.

“What do you know of a man by the name of Señor Hernán Cortez?”

 

~*~*~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejornal, June 2011.

“Two minutes dead, sir!”

“ _Lawrence_ reports at one-fifty!”

“ _Winter_ reports one-fifty-two!”

“ _Amaranthe_ at one-fifty-five!”

“ _Pointe_ at one-forty-two!”

Bush saw Hornblower shake his head at the report from the _Pointe_ of the exercise at running out the guns and knew that the Commodore was thinking that Vickery had cheated yet again in a similar fashion that had graced their exercises in the Baltic. That thought was unconfirmed when one of Bush’s midshipmen, Norrington, read an additional signal flag, saying, “ _Lawrence_ reports that _Pointe_ did not cheat like that last time in the Baltic.”

“One minute and forty-two seconds,” said Hornblower, admiringly. “Good. That would be the new time to beat.” Turning to Bush, he said, “One more round for good measure. Carry on, Captain Bush.”

“Mr. Norrington, if you please,” said Bush, knowing that the midshipman had heard what the Commodore had said.

As Norrington ran up the flags to indicate a reset of stations, Bush thought he spied a glimmer of a challenge in Hornblower’s eyes. He could feel himself responding to that challenge and walked from the poop and down to the main deck, shouting, “One minute, forty-two seconds! The _Pointe_ is only sloop with less hands that us. We may carry larger guns than they, but that does not make us any slower or weaker! We can and will broadside to pieces any sloop that challenges us! Show those toy boats that we are stronger and faster than them, men! Show the Commodore what a rated ship in His Majesty’s Navy can do!”

There was a great cheer from those on the decks and below that seemed thunderous as the crew, spurred on to impress their Commodore, scrambled to reset and begin anew. As the timing was reset, Bush kept an eye on his crew, walking up and down the deck, carefully watching how they handled the guns and how the gun captains handled the supervision of their crews. At times, he bellowed some words to his men, with Second Lieutenant Groves getting an earful of one of his words of ‘encouragement’. Still the lieutenant did not flinch and continued on with his duties. Good man.

“Time!” shouted Bush as soon as all gun captains shouted their readiness.

“One-forty even, sir,” said Turner.

Bush turned from where he was standing near the larboard bow cannons and looked up towards the poop railing where Hornblower was leaning against as a cheer rose from the crew. Kennedy was standing next to Hornblower, his expressive grin easy to read. Bush was not too sure, but he thought he saw a satisfied smile grace Hornblower’s face before returning to a neutral expression. Either way, he knew the Commodore was happy with how the crew performed on the final run. However, their time was about to be compared to the rest of the squadron.

The cheers died down as Norrington read the flags and times off, saying, “ _Lawrence_ reports one-forty-one!”

“ _Winter_ reports one-forty-two!”

“ _Amaranthe_ reports one-forty-two!”

“ _Pointe_ …regrets that they…remain at...one-forty-two!”

“Hip! Hip!” one of the crewmen started.

“Huzzah!” the crew finished.

Bush slowly walked back up to the poop and amidst the cheers, he heard Hornblower say, “My congratulations Captain Bush and to your crew. I’ll be in my cabin should anything arise. Please signal the squadron for a captains’ meeting at eight bells of the afternoon watch.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Bush, suffused with pleasure at the rare compliment, almost forgetting to touch the tip of his hat in salute to Hornblower.

They had been sailing northwest for the past three days, catching a good breeze from the trade winds. According to the charts, they would be catching the tail end of the westerlies in about three or four days, which would start to steer them in the northeast direction. This stop that the squadron would make to hold a captains meeting before resuming their journey, would hopefully be the only one.

“Stand down and resume duties,” shouted Bush.

As Hornblower left the poop and retired to his cabin, Bush noted that Kennedy stayed where he was, watching the activities of the crew returning the ship to its normal duties. There was a wistful look on Kennedy’s face, but Bush ignored it for now – he had his own duties to tend to. “Mr. Norrington,” he called to the midshipman who hurried over.

“Yes, sir?” Norrington asked.

“Make signal to squadron to summon the captains here at eight bells of the afternoon watch. Also, my compliments to Mr. Turner, I have a word for him,” said Bush.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Norrington, nodding and touching the tip of his hat before scurrying away.

Bush watched the midshipman leave, wondering why with such potential talent in navigation and seamanship, had not the officer’s previous captains not recommend Norrington for a lieutenant’s commission. The man was most certainly in his late twenties, thought Bush, and was most certainly an able officer. Nothing on the man’s record ever indicated any foul deeds. It was mainly out the exacting need for a midshipman with experience to train and guide the younger midshipmen that Bush had selected Norrington as a part of his crew. It was a curious case that sometimes puzzled Bush, but he did not put anymore thought into it.

Less than a minute later, young Turner showed up, saying, “Yes, sir?”

“Be sure an extra ration of grog is distributed for the men at their dinner today, Mr. Turner. Ensure that it comes straight from their gun captains. Those who have had their rations taken away will still not be able to partake in the celebration, as are those who are underage. The men did well in today’s exercises,” said Bush.

“Thank ye, sir,” said Turner, quite happy at the news. “I will be sure that the gun captains know of their duties.”

With a tip of his hand to his hat, Turner ran off. Bush watched him disappear down into the ship before returning his gaze to the horizon.

“That young man, Mr. Turner, is your first lieutenant, am I not correct?” asked Kennedy, turning so that he was now leaning on his side on the railing.

“That is correct, Mr. Whittaker,” answered Bush, remembering that only in the privacy of Hornblower’s cabins when it was only he, Kennedy, and Hornblower present, that they could refer to Kennedy as so. In public, he was the volunteer intelligence agent for His Majesty, Mr. Stanley Whittaker.

“I am acquainted with Mr. Turner’s family. His family is renowned blacksmiths in the Caribbean, though none have ever served in the Navy before,” said Kennedy. “If I may inquire, how did Mr. Turner come to be aboard?”

“That I am not sure of myself,” admitted Bush. “He was the first lieutenant under the ship in which Admiral Pellew commanded the Channel Fleet. The Admiral himself recommended him to me when I lost my first lieutenant to injury. His record is flawless and exceptional for someone of his age. I do not know when he has last heard from his family though, so if you have news, perhaps he would like to know.”

“My thanks, Captain Bush. I am sure Lieutenant Turner would be glad to hear of some recent good news regarding his family,” said Kennedy, in the tone of the as ever the formal and proper Stanley Whittaker. “If you are ever in the Caribbean again and in Kingston, I would recommend seeking out the blacksmith company, Turner and Sons. Their production of blades is extremely high in quality.”

To prove Kennedy’s point, the man undid the sword belt from his waist and handed to Bush who took it and unsheathed the blade, looking at it. His own sword that he received after his commission as a captain, had a much prettier hilt, but he had felt the balance was a bit off. This one was light and almost perfectly balanced when he held it.

“A lovely sword, Mr. Whittaker,” said Bush as he re-sheathed the sword. “I will remember the name, if I am ever at Kingston again.”

Kennedy accepted back the sword and re-strapped it to his waist before whispering in a very low tone, “Horatio’s seasick again, isn’t he?”

Bush merely nodded in confirmation while Kennedy said, “Some things will never change.” In the tone and accent of Stanley Whittaker, Kennedy said, “By your leave, Captain, I shall be below decks.”

Bush merely gave a nod at this slightly outrageous display of formality that Kennedy was putting on and with a flourish that he saw only out of the corner of his eyes, Kennedy left. He sighed – indeed some things never changed.

“Is there something in the Kingston rum that causes them to act like that, sir?” asked Harriman in a slightly jesting tone.

Bush turned back a bit to look at his coxswain and more to himself, stated, “Most likely just Mr. Whittaker.”

 

* * *

 

Four days later, the squadron caught the fight between the trade and westerlies winds, and after a few hours, they finally managed to catch the entirety of the westerlies and were well on their way back to England. They were currently due north, but in a few days, the wind would shift and they would finally be heading northeast. It was a slightly misty and cloudy morning that found Bush and Kennedy standing by the lee side railing while Hornblower was in the middle of his usual hour walk up and down the weather side.

“Ha-h’m,” the non-committal noise escaped Hornblower’s mouth.

Bush continued to gaze out in the vast blue ocean while Kennedy leaned on the railing, looking infinitely relaxed and nonchalant. Kennedy had learned very quickly that even though he was one of Hornblower’s friends, even he was not allowed to disturb the Commodore’s daily hour-long walks.

The captains’ meeting four days ago had been productive, though to his word, Kennedy had not told the others about the history of Cortez or anything else regarding his secretive mission for that matter. Should the worst happen, Kennedy was to transfer to the _Lawrence_ and the rest of the squadron would do their best to punch a hole in the enemy to give the _Lawrence_ a chance to escape and run to England with her cargo. When the planning for that worse-case scenario was done, the captains had also determined that since the _Winter_ was similarly built like the _Lawrence_ , should the enemy ships try to follow the _Lawrence_ , the _Winter_ was to run away as a decoy.

“Sail ho! Two points off the larboard stern!” a seaman called from the crow’s nest.

Bush immediately turned from the railing and as quickly as his leg and wooden leg could allow, he made his way down the deck and towards the stern. Only Hornblower, shaken out of his reverie and interrupted walk beat him and already had his telescope out. Bush extended his own, as did his two lieutenants and several others.

As he sighted down his telescope, Bush could barely see the white sails of another ship bearing down at them. It was only one, but at this distance and with the damning mists, he could not tell what kind she was. He quickly estimated how many hours separated them and the ship bearing down at them and glanced over at Hornblower who far from the usual calm, had a pensive look on his face.

“There will most likely be a storm in the afternoon, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower.

“Aye, sir,” replied Bush, glancing up towards the sky, deeply embarrassed that he had not notice the slowly gathering clouds when he had been merely staring out at the horizon earlier. “She’s only one, sir, and coming from the sou’west. The French flotilla should be coming in from the sou’east if we were to encounter them.”

At that point, it seemed that he was to be contradicted, for the same seaman on the nest shouted, “Two—Three sails, sir!”

The telescope was at Bush’s eye again and this time, he saw three topgallant masts with their rectangular sails rippling gently in the wind. Impossibly, they seemed to be closer than before, whereas not only a few minutes earlier, they were mere specks in his telescope, barely visible. As the seconds slowly ticked by, Bush could barely see the outline of the bow of the three ships, but it was enough that he could identify what they were.

“Commodore Hornblower, what is going on?” asked Kennedy, affecting a slightly panicking tone in his voice. A very quick glance over at Kennedy told Bush that there was the familiar pinched, but determined look on the man’s face. Even without a telescope, Kennedy had an idea of what was happening and knew that it didn’t bode well.

“Frigates,” stated Hornblower. “At least twenty-eight guns each to our thirty-six. But they’ll rip apart at least two of our own before we can bring them down.”

“Sirs,” began Turner, “it is a little too far to tell right now, but I think the frigates may be of the same type of build that the _Surprise_ encountered while chasing the _Acheron_.”

Bush kept his mouth shut as he mentally swore an oath. Every naval officer had heard of the legendary chase between the HMS _Surprise_ and the French forty-four-gunned _Acheron_ up and down the South American coast nearly ten years ago. If his first lieutenant was correct, then not only would they be run down by three twenty-eight gunned frigates, but out-maneuvered. He mentally estimated that the frigates would be as maneuverable as the sloops, and none of the smaller ships’ guns would be able to even dent the frigates’ hulls. Only the _Meridian_ stood a chance.

“Captain Bush, signal squadron to set course nor’-by-nor’east and tighten up formation,” said Hornblower, grimly taking the telescope from his eye. “I want the _Lawrence_ near us. As soon as we get far enough to that swath of fog, we will transfer you over to the _Lawrence_ , Mr. Whittaker.”

Bush turned from facing stern and glanced towards the bow, slightly surprised to see a nice swath of fog in the area where Hornblower had said. He had not seen it, even when he had been staring out at the horizon on the leeward side – remarkable; it was as if Hornblower had eyes in the back of his head.

“Yes, Commodore,” Kennedy said, though Bush thought he heard reluctance in that tone and realized that though the man was now working as an intelligence agent for His Majesty, Kennedy missed the sea.

“Mr. Harriman,” Bush called out to the coxswain, “set course nor’-by-nor’east. Mr. Groves, kindly help Mr. Norrington at the flags. Signal squadron for change of course and tighten formation. Mr. Norrington, signal _Lawrence_ to match pace with us and see to it she is off our starboard.”

A chorus of ‘aye aye, sir’ replied to his orders and not a moment later, Turner, still facing stern, said, “I estimate four hours until they catch us, sirs.”

Bush turned to Hornblower who had a very calm look on his face, and Bush instantly knew what was about to happen. “Mr. Whittaker,” said Hornblower, quietly, “if you could see to it that you are ready to board at a moment’s notice.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Kennedy, and he turned and left the poop, making his way down and towards where he was berthed to collect what little he had.

Bush could feel his excitement bubble and as soon as Hornblower turned slightly towards him, he saw the curt nod of his head and the calm tone of Hornblower say, “These are not the French fleet from the Malagasy Republic. They are ships that broke the blockade. Make signal to squadron to clear for action, Captain Bush.”

Bush immediately turned to his first lieutenant who had snapped shut his telescope at the quiet words of the Commodore, and said, “Beat to quarters.”

 

* * *

 

Bush took in the simple pride that neither he nor Hornblower flinched when the bow guns of the French frigate closest to the squadron fired. It was a testament to how much both of them had gone through, and Bush could see the crew take heart that their fearless Commodore was standing absolutely still and calm. The shots from the closest frigate landed about two cable lengths away from the _Meridian_ ’s stern, but with the fog upon them, they were hopefully about to be in the clear.

The hands had been dismissed from their stations for a morning meal, but they were now back, all waiting with baited breath – all quiet as they slowly slipped into the fog with the rest of the squadron. Bush glanced around and could barely see the looming hulks of the others; the only one visible enough was the _Lawrence_ , who was off their starboard, keeping pace with them.

“Signal squadron to alter course two points larboard, Captain Bush,” whispered Hornblower.

Bush repeated the message in a strained whisper as the wind started to pick up in anticipation of an approaching storm. The message was passed along quickly until it made its way up to where Midshipman Smith was with the lighted signals in the foremast. As the lanterns were configured and the cowls covering the lighted lanterns were pulled off, Bush could barely feel a very slight shift under his feet as the _Meridian_ turned in the indicated direction. The sea was already rough with the wind and the ship was yawing and pitching more than usual.

They could still hear the random cannon fire from the frigates, but as the sound started to dissipate and become more scattered, it seemed like the pursing ships were headed more east than the northward direction the squadron was headed in. True to their discipline, the crew did not cheer as the sounds of cannon fire got fainter and fainter until long minutes passed where they could hear almost nothing at all except for the lapping of the waves against the hulls of the ships.

“Seven-bells, sir!” one of the men whispered, calling out the time instead of ringing the bell, lest they give way their position.

“Captain Bush,” began Hornblower, still whispering, “we shall hold course for another four hours. If we do not encounter any hostile activities before then, we shall transfer Mr. Whittaker to the _Lawrence_.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Bush. Still in a whispered tone, he passed along the short message and the signal lanterns were once again, briefly revealed to the squadron before being covered again.

However, the calm and peace that had befallen the ship and her still-ready-to-fight crew was shattered when Midshipman Smith’s strained whisper called out, “Signal from the _Winter_ , sir! She’s seen signs of ship wreckage ahead!”

Bush hurried down from the poop and towards the foremast. Hornblower, being the unshakable person he was, remained at the poop while Bush arrived at the bow, telescope out. The _Winter_ was the scouting ship of the squadron and with the thick fog surrounding them at sea level, it was almost impossible to tell one shape from another. He put his telescope down, but did not retract it. However, what the _Winter_ had spied slowly made itself known to them off the larboard side.

Pieces of splintered wood and barrels floating on the rough grey-blue sea started to show themselves, though however, they did not look quite as solid as they should’ve been. Bush frowned at this odd sight, as he heard Hornblower’s steady gait approach the main deck and stop near him.

“What an odd sight,” commented Hornblower, softly, as a semi-transparent cluster of barrels, still wrapped together in their thick cargo netting, floated passed the squadron.

“Sir!” whispered one of the crewmen in a hoarse voice. “Look!”

The fog all around them suddenly disappeared as the squadron glided into an area where only grey clouds and the rough, white-capped seas greeted them. An enormous wreckage of a ship clearly blown to pieces was seen in the distance, about two hundred yards away from the _Meridian_. However, the flames and black, acrid smoke that lifted up from the wrecked ship was curiously light and transparent, as if not quite there at all.

Bush noted that the crewmen, overcome by their curiosity, had strayed from their stations and turned to yell, but caught himself just in time and roughly said in an even tone to the nearest crewmember, “Back to your stations!” They could not afford any loud noises yet, not until they could confirm that the French frigates were no longer pursing them. The lieutenants and other gun captains took his cue and ushered the curious crew back to their stations, though a few did look back at the strangeness of what they were seeing.

“Is that…real?” asked Kennedy as he emerged from the cabin and stood by both Bush and Hornblower, though Bush no longer had his attention on the wreckage and was instead, scanning the horizon all around them. He could see the _Lawrence_ off their starboard, and the _Winter_ , clearly ahead. As he returned his gaze to the larboard side, he saw Hornblower hand Kennedy his telescope. The man took a few seconds to sight through it before saying, “Very strange…I can see straight through the wreckage and see the _Pointe_.”

“Ha-h’m,” muttered Hornblower before taking the telescope back.

“Oh Lord…that cannot be…” Bush caught the whisper in the silence that sounded like Midshipman Norrington’s voice.

“What?” asked Turner, who was the gun captain nearest to Norrington. Norrington was the officer in charge of the starboard stern guns. “What did you see, man?”

Bush strode over to the midshipman, balancing himself as best as he could with the roiling sea beneath him as Hornblower ran up to the poop and stopped by the coxswain, telescope to his eye. Bush managed to contain his irritation at the tone both his first lieutenant and the midshipman had adopted, which had an edge of panic to them. He did not need his crew to be even more on edge than they were already.

“What did you see, young…gentleman?” he managed to ask without calling the midshipman another name which he clearly wanted to use. He knew that Hornblower was within earshot of his words and did not like the officers to be addressed in a demeaning fashion.

“I…I thought I saw a ship…a black ship, disappear into the fog.” said Norrington, gesturing with his hand towards the stern where there was still a wall of the thick grey fog that was slowly receding as the squadron continued to sail through this cleared area.

However, Hornblower was still looking through the telescope and had not said anything with regards to Norrington’s words. It was surprisingly Groves, captaining the gun crew next to Norrington, who spoke up, saying, “A black ship? With black sails?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” said Norrington. “Perhaps.”

None of the frigates pursuing them had black sails, and he wondered what prompted his second lieutenant to ask that question to Norrington. “Mr. Groves, did you see anything?” he asked.

“No, sir, but I have heard of the story of a black ship with black sails that existed long ago in the Caribbean. My father told me of a story of a ship with black sails and a black hull that _was_ crewed by the damned and returned to the infamous pirate, Jack Sparrow. He said the ship was real because his father was part of the crew chasing after it.”

“If you are talking about the pirate ship, the _Black Pearl_ , Mr. Groves, she was finally claimed by the sea almost fifty years ago,” said Turner, a bit quietly, from the larboard stern area. “My grandfather witnessed it.”

Bush shook his head at the nonsense. The golden age of high seas piracy had fallen by the mid 1700s, just before the start of the American Revolutionary War, and the stories of pirates he heard in the pubs and ale houses back in England were just only that, stories. He would have to think up some apt punishment for his officers later for spreading false rumors and putting the crew on further edge.

“Then pray, do tell, what is that, my good man?” asked Kennedy as Bush glanced up at Hornblower, who had a most curious look on his face that was focused on Norrington and Groves before turning towards where Kennedy was, still looking out on the larboard side.

Following Kennedy’s words and the Commodore’s gaze, Bush was surprised to see a black ship with black sails, flying no colors, gently cruising parallel the squadron, in the opposite direction. However, similar to what he had witnessed just mere minutes ago, he could see straight through the ship. The fear in him that was suppose to accompany this strange apparition was strangely not there.

“Signal to _Pointe_ and _Amaranthe_ and ask if they see what we are seeing,” said Hornblower, gripping the poop’s railing with a clear frown on his face.

“Stay at your stations, men!” said Bush, roughly, but not shouting his words, for he was not quite sure that they should be making loud noises yet. Some of the men had gotten curious again and were starting to turn towards the larboard side. To Midshipman Smith, he said, “Mr. Smith, run up the flags to _Pointe_ and _Amaranthe_ and ask them to confirm what we are witnessing.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied the young midshipman.

Minutes later, the midshipman came back with the answer saying, “They see what we are seeing, yet they can see through the black ship, sir.”

However, before Bush or Hornblower could comment, the black ship suddenly disappeared before their eyes, and then Kennedy said, “Look at that! We’re sailing on the sand!”

Bush immediately walked over as best as he could in the still-roiling motion of the deck under his foot and wooden leg and peered over the edge of the larboard railing. Indeed, they were sailing over what looked like apparitions of white sand. He clearly remembered the charts indicating that this was the Atlantic and there was a bottomless depth to these waters. No shoal water existed in these parts of the sea.

“Ha-h’m…that is interesting,” commented Hornblower, who had descended to the main deck to stand between Kennedy and Bush.

Bush looked up from the strange images in the still choppy waters and what he witnessed in the open water between the _Meridian_ , _Pointe_ , and _Amaranthe_ was almost unbelievable. The apparition of another ship had appeared, this time, sailing a roughly parallel course to all three ships in the direction they were moving, except this time, it seemed that she was dumping all sorts of cargo, including ammunition. She was also flying England’s old colors.

“The _Interceptor_ ,” whispered Turner. “She was an eighteen-gun brig. She’s was being chased by the _Pearl_ and sunk when the _Pearl_ overwhelmed her crew.”

As soon as that statement left Bush’s first lieutenant’ mouth, the apparition of the black ship with black sails seemed to charge straight out of the fog, gaining speedily on the apparition of the brig. Suddenly, the brig let loose her starboard anchor and when the end of the line was reached, the ship suddenly swung around, splintering the hull where the strain of the metal links ground against the wood. Bush thought he could almost hear the enormous thunderclap of metal against wood. She almost lifted her entire stern out of the water, before crashing back into the sea. Turned almost completely around, she fired a broadside with her starboard guns at the black ship just as the black ship fired her own port guns.

However, at that moment, the squalls of the incoming storm started their torrential downpour, washing everything into near-darkness as the black clouds rolled in. Bush could see no more of the strange apparition that he and the rest of them had witnessed. The afternoon storm that Hornblower had predicted to come had finally arrived.

“Captain Bush!” shouted Hornblower as the winds started to pick up in earnest and the distant rumbles of thunder were starting to be heard. “Signal squadron to stand down and draw together in formation!”

“Aye aye, sir!” he shouted back, and then relayed the orders to Smith, who clambered up the rapidly soaking lines to the foremast to get the signal lights out. As he also ordered his crew to stand down from their action stations and resume the watch, he listened to what Hornblower was telling Kennedy.

“Looks like we’re not transferring you to the _Lawrence_ anytime soon, Mr. Whittaker!” shouted Hornblower.

“I should hope not!” said Kennedy. “If you do not mind, I would like to remain indoors!”

“Very well, Mr. Whittaker!” said Hornblower, bracing himself against a sudden gust of wind and rain that would have nearly cause him to trip and fall, had Bush not been attentive and stuck an arm out to prevent his friend from falling onto the deck. “Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, as if the gust of wind and Bush’s prevention of him falling had not even been acknowledged by him, “Meet us in the day cabin when you have completed your duties. We have much to discuss!”

“Aye aye, sir!” replied Bush, in between giving orders. He knew that below decks, the crew would be discussing what had recently happened, and he knew that soon, he would have to contend with the possibility of a superstitious crew. He himself was already wary of what had happened, and he knew that he could not let it show, lest the crew be even more terrified.

Would the punishments that he, Bush, would render upon Norrington, Turner, and Groves, for their part in all this strangeness, be enough to allay his crew’s fears? He did not know and did not want to speculate – he could only hope so.

 

~*~*~*~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

“Horatio, the _Black Pearl_ is real!”

Bush heard the exclamation from Kennedy as soon as the door to the cabin closed and he took a seat opposite of Kennedy at the long oak table, stumbling slightly into his chair as the ship rocked with the sea. The beating rain and thunder claps were loud enough to muffle whatever they were saying, for before he entered, Bush could not even hear muffled voices.

“Be that as it may, Archie, whether or not it is real has no bearing on our current situation,” said Hornblower, his tone eerily calm. “If it is real, then it is as Mr. Turner said, she sunk long ago. What we are seeing is nothing to be frightened of; just figments of a long ago incident between the _Interceptor_ and a pirate ship she was chasing.”

“Figments?!” said Archie, a bit indignant, “those were _ghosts_ , Horatio! Real specters! Tell me that you _did not_ witness the _Interceptor_ rolling out her starboard anchor in that insane maneuver! Tell me that Bush and I are just imagining things!”

Bush glanced over at Kennedy, slightly irritated that the man had dragged him unwillingly into this war of words. However, as he returned his gaze to Hornblower, he noted that his friend had an absolutely calm and nonplussed look about him. Was not Hornblower wary or even disturbed at what had happened before the storm?

“Archie,” said Horatio in a composed and controlled tone, “I did see what the two of you and the crew saw. I do not doubt my eyes. I just do not believe in it. There is nothing to be frightened of and nothing has attacked us. We should be concentrating more on those French frigates who are no doubt pursuing and trying to find us, even in this storm. This storm will delay us, but we can only hope that the French also run into this.”

“Sir,” Bush spoke up, “if those apparitions appear again—“

“Would the two of you _please_ stop,” commanded Hornblower, catching their eyes before shaking his head. In a quieter and harsher tone, he said, “Both of you sound like women who have never seen ship rats scurry across the deck before. I cannot believe that both of you, whom have stood in the face of death and survived, are frightened like mere children at the sight of these things! These apparitions cannot hurt us. They are just there and we will leave them be.”

Bush had longed schooled expression to mask his feelings and kept it to himself, for he knew that it was only Hornblower’s frustration at this strange happening that he was venting it out. However, Kennedy, having been not beside Hornblower for so long, had a hurt look on his face, not used to such words from his friend.

Hornblower had clearly seen the look on Kennedy’s face and only after a moment, did he say, “Trust me, Archie. These apparitions will not hurt us.” Hornblower then turned his attention to Bush and said, “I want to speak to you about your lieutenants and Midshipman Norrington, Captain Bush. I also want to speak to them in a moment. It seems that they know a few things that might help abate the irrational fear in the squadron.”

“Indeed,” agreed Bush, “It seems they do, though I trust that you will not object to their punishments for putting more fear into my crew?”

“I will not,” said Hornblower, giving Bush a curt nod. “I would like to advise you on one matter though. I suspect that you will give Mr. Norrington twelve lashes with the cane as his punishment. The man has knowledge that may prove useful to help abate this ridiculous nonsense – he just only needs to learn some discretion. I suggest only six lashes, and I and Mr. Norrington will hopefully justify to you as to why I suggest this leniency.”

“I will take it under consideration, Commodore,” said Bush, slightly puzzled. He had accepted advice from Hornblower with grace and delight before, but this particular one was a very strange one from his friend.

“Now,” said Hornblower, before taking a small sip of the wine in his glass. “I heard that your first lieutenant, Mr. Turner, was recommended to you by Admiral Pellew?”

“That is correct, sir,” answered Bush, who accepted a glass of wine poured by Kennedy a moment ago. “When the _Nonsuch_ returned to the Channel Fleet, we saw a brief spate of action against several French warships, one of which injured my first lieutenant enough that he had to be placed on sick leave in Plymouth. It was then that Admiral Pellew recommended Mr. Turner to me, from his own ship too.”

“Could you tell me of his record?” asked Hornblower.

As Bush summarized what he knew of his first lieutenant’s record of action and service in the Navy, he saw Hornblower briefly nod once or twice. When he was done, Hornblower said, “Excellent history of service for young Turner, but he did say that his grandfather saw the sinking of that pirate ship. Ha-h’m…I have not seen his father’s or grandfather’s name in the naval records before.”

“You won’t, Horatio,” said Kennedy, putting the wine glass he had in his hand down on the table. “The Turner family is well known throughout the Caribbean as blacksmiths. They are who I stayed with for a few years after the _Renown_ , in Kingston. I do not recall anyone of them having a naval service record, but their youngest son, William, wanted to join the Navy. I helped him book passage to England, against his parents’ wishes and put him in contact with a few people I knew in the naval station in Southhampton.”

Horatio nodded at the information before muttering a barely audible ‘ha-h’m’ and resumed questioning, asking, “Lieutenant Groves was with us in the Baltic, was he not?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bush. “His family has had a long history of service in the Navy. The boy’s father, Captain Stewart Groves, participated at Trafalgar, but was killed in action.” Upon seeing Hornblower’s nod and settling of his face, he knew that Hornblower wanted to question his three officers, and so summoned one of his crewmen to fetch the three officers.

Before Norrington, Turner, and Groves arrived, Bush had re-arranged his seat so that he was sitting next to Hornblower and the two of them were facing the cabin’s door. All glasses of wine had been put to the side and the table was partially cleared of all scraps of leaflets and charts. Kennedy had remained at the side of the table, staying on behalf of Hornblower’s request. Bush found that extremely odd, for Kennedy had no right to stay and attend to naval affairs, so why was Hornblower allowing the man to stay?

Bush did not get to voice the question to Hornblower as the door was rapped and the sharp, commanding voice of Hornblower said, “Enter!”

There was a longer pause than usual before the three men entered, bringing the howling wind and driving rain briefly into the cabin before one of them shut the door. The sounds of the storm still raged in the day cabin, but it was much quieter. They most likely heard the muffle of Hornblower’s command and had been determining if it was a command to enter or not. The cabin had already been saturated with the smell of wet oilskin, but now the smell was almost unbearable.

Bush gestured for his officers to sit before them, and they removed their hats and oilskins, hanging the coats on the back of the chairs before sitting. He could see the questioning looks in their eyes, but most of all, he could see the fear – not for what had happened before the storm, but for what they had been called here for. Bush dared not glance over to Hornblower as the minutes of silence ticked by, but he had to applaud at his officers not squirming in their seats, as most were prone to do whenever Hornblower held his silence for a long time before speaking. As the oilskins began to dry, the familiar musty odor filled the air, slightly more bearable than the wet odor, but Bush hoped that whatever the Commodore wanted to question his men about would be quick. If it were to last more than the next bell, then the smell would start to dizzy all occupants.

“Tell me what you know of regarding today’s incident, Lieutenant Turner,” said Hornblower.

“Sir,” began Turner, swallowing a bit before finding his voice, “it is as I said before: the _Interceptor_ was being pursued by the _Black Pearl_. She tried to stay to the shoals as best as possible, and when that did not work, she started to dump everything she could to try to outrun the _Pearl_.”

Before Turner could say anymore, Hornblower interrupted him and said, “Mr. Norrington, I was always under the impression that the _Interceptor_ was a part of your grand uncle, then-Commodore Norrington’s squadron. Was she not pursing this ghost of a pirate ship we saw today?”

“Y-yes, sir,” replied Norrington, hesitating for just a moment. “Except that she had been stolen by the pirate, Jack Sparrow to pursue the _Pearl_. The _Dauntless_ was sent after her to seize her back and to search for the then-Governor’s missing daughter, who had been taken by the pirates of the _Pearl_ on a raid.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Bush could see an impassive look on Hornblower’s face, seemingly unaffected by the midshipman’s words. He realized then that Hornblower _knew_ something about Midshipman Norrington and this _Interceptor-Pearl_ chase before he had even called for this interview. If Hornblower knew something of this incident that had been witnessed by nearly the entire squadron, then why was he interviewing the officers? Try as he might, Bush could not fathom what Hornblower knew…

A sudden thought struck him as he thought back to the times when he was young; pooling through his father’s collection of old Naval Gazettes. That collection had been started when his father had been young, searching for news of his own father out at sea and the accomplishments that he did. The collection was dated from the golden age of piracy and through the American Revolutionary War. After his father had died, Bush had stopped collecting the Gazettes, though when he entered the Naval College and received his commission, his sisters started to collect the Gazette again.

He remembered that in the old copies of the Gazette, his father had pointed out a particular article to him. Bush had read through it and it had been about a Commodore Norrington, commander of a protectorate squadron in the Caribbean, and how he had lost pursuit of a pirate ship by sailing his own squadron into a hurricane, destroying almost the entire squadron. He remembered his father telling him that if he, Bush, ever received his commission as a Commodore, to never pull ‘something that ridiculous and foolish’, even when pursing an enemy ship. Commodore Norrington had been court-martialed and dishonorably discharged from the service. Bush now clearly remembered that the name of Norrington had been black-listed in the Navy.

If Midshipman Norrington was related to the Norrington of old, then it was not a wonder that his midshipman was not even a lieutenant yet, even with a flawless record. For a family that had been blacklisted in the Navy, Bush now understood why Norrington had remained a midshipman, even in his late twenties – the previous captains that Norrington had served with all knew of the travesty of the Norrington name, and all had thought that the family had to pay for one man’s past incompetence. That revelation also came with the knowledge that Bush knew that Hornblower had already known of Norrington and of the incident that had befallen his family, before this mission had begun. Norrington most obviously knew of the stories behind his family’s downfall in the Navy, in which Bush now agreed with Hornblower’s assessment that the man should have learned some discretion before opening his mouth. One small comment from Norrington had started the path downwards to frightening the crew.

As Bush thought about it some more, he came to the conclusion that pirate ship that the former Commodore Norrington and his squadron had been pursing could have been the _Black Pearl_. However, he remembered that he did read briefly in the Gazette of an Admiral Norrington of the East India Trading Company. Was that Norrington related to this Midshipman Norrington? Bush did not know and did not think about it anymore.

“Mr. Groves, you stated earlier that your grandfather was part of the crew chasing the _Pearl_. What do you know of this incident between the _Interceptor_ and the _Pearl_?”

“Nothing except witness reports that my father used to tell me as stories, sir,” answered Groves, a bit nervously. “My grandfather was the first lieutenant on the _Dauntless_ when they sailed in search of the _Interceptor_ , though they ended up pursuing the _Pearl_.”

“Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower after a moment of silence. He then folded his hands across the table and said, “Mr. Turner, given that you has stated that your grandfather saw the _Pearl_ sink about fifty years ago, and you seem to be more knowledgable about what happened, what might you suggest that we have witnessed earlier?”

“Sir,” began Turner, “if I may speak my mind?”

Bush could see Hornblower’s sharp gaze focus on the first lieutenant for a moment before nodding in consent, saying, “Speak your mind, Mr. Turner.”

“I have sailed the Caribbean and this part of the Atlantic before, and there are many a time that apparitions such as this appear. The battles fought here long ago have been bloody and many and it is not surprising that specters of the past appear. In the encounters that I have witnessed, they have been harmless and were merely echoes.”

“Then I expect you to reassure the men that these sightings are harmless, Mr. Turner,” stated Bush as soon as Turner was done talking. He did not mean to interrupt Hornblower, but he wanted his officers to understand the gravity of the situation. He had also seen the way Hornblower was set against the table that meant that he, Hornblower, was done with the interview.

“I expect the three of you to completely reassure the men that there is nothing to be frightened of,” continued Bush. “Your actions and words today have been gravelly ill-conceived and ill-spoken and I will not have it on my ship. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the three replied together.

Bush decided to adopt the same stance and look as Hornblower, folding his hands across the table, and looked at his officers squarely in the eyes. “Punishments for your actions and words are as follows. Mr. Norrington, you will receive six lashes from the cane. Mr. Turner and Mr. Groves, the two of you will stand watch and watch, one after the other. When you, Mr. Turner, are on watch, Mr. Groves and Mr. Norrington will report to you at every other bell. When you, Mr. Groves, are on watch, Mr. Turner and Mr. Norrington will report to you at every other bell. Your rations for grog have also been suspended until this punishment is carried out in full. Mr. Turner, you begin your watch in ten minutes.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the three of them replied.

“Dismissed,” said Bush, a bit brusquely. “Mr. Norrington, you will report below and pass the word for Mr. Gibson and his mate.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Norrington. The three officers touched their hands to the tip of their heads before leaving with the hats and oilskins, briefly bringing the storm back into the cabin before the door shut again.

“Lashes for the midshipman, watch and watch for the lieutenants with reporting at every other bell,” said Kennedy, derision lacing his tone, after a moment of silence in which the sound of the creaks of the ship, swaying with the rough sea, seemed more audible than ever before. “I thought we were done with that after Captain Sawyer and the _Renown_.”

“Mr. Kennedy, kindly keep _your_ comments about my running of my ship to _yourself_ , please,” said Bush, harshly. He was annoyed at the presumption of the man whom he thought had become more rational and tempered than he had been a long time ago. It was only because Hornblower was in this cabin that he did not call Kennedy anything fouler. To do so would most likely earn the ire of his friend.

“Archie, have you seen anything like this during your years in the Caribbean?” asked Hornblower after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.

“Not personally,” replied Kennedy. “I have heard stories from others though.”

“You said earlier that you helped Mr. Turner book passage to England. How well did you know Mr. Turner, Archie?”

“Quite well, Horatio. The boy was a first-rate swordsman and even before he joined the Navy, he has been well acquainted with the sea, having accompanied me sometimes whenever I would deliver orders to others at the smaller ports and colonies.”

At the reserved noise of ‘ha-h’m’ from Hornblower, Bush suspected that his friend had finally come to a conclusion about something. What that ‘something’ was remained elusive to Bush, and as usual, frustrated him to no end. However, if Hornblower was confident in the fact that these apparitional happenings were harmless, then he, Bush, too would take heart in that. He hoped that his crew and the squadron would draw on the strength of Hornblower’s cool and steadfast demeanor in the face of such strangeness.

 

* * *

 

The rough winds from the storm did not abate until a few days later, and even then the sky was grey and cloudy as the rain continued to pour, though much less than it had been. The squadron, having weathered the storm, continued on their way; their formation now an inverted ‘vee’ formation with the _Meridian_ leading the squadron, followed by the _Winter_ and _Lawrence_ , and the _Amaranthe_ and _Pointe_ taking up the rear. With their larboard and starboard guns ready to be bared on either side of the sea, each ship kept an eye on the blue horizon for any signs of the French frigates.

With the crew and the squadron reassured and drawing strength from Hornblower’s confidence against the strange tidings days ago, Bush found himself rather somewhat enjoying the trip back up to England – if it were not for the fact that they had enemies pursing them. Several days out from the storm that had engulfed them and still not one of the ships had seen any sign of the frigates.

A blustery gust of wind caused Bush to touch a hand to his hat to keep it from being taken by the wind, but that same wind also brought snatches of a conversation between his lieutenants and a particular midshipman. As he listened in, he remained where he was, at the bow of the ship, eyes out and to the horizon, back to the entire deck and crew.

“What say you, Mr. Turner that the next time we pull into port; we snatch Lieutenant Mound’s ship-cat and place it on this vessel for a day or so? Do you reckon that that will be enough time for the mouser to clear out the rats?” asked Groves.

“A day?” scoffed Turner, “unlikely. Mr. Norrington, how many rats did you see in the past week?”

“Three, maybe four different ones, sir,” said Norrington, though to Bush, the midshipman sounded distracted.

“I propose then, to leave said cat aboard for at least a week. Then we will return the feline to Lieutenant Mound with our compliments on a job well done,” said Turner.

“Sir, the _Lawrence_ ’s ship-cat does have kittens,” said Norrington. “Perhaps we can take one of the kittens instead, and leave the creature aboard this ship indefinitely?”

“What if the captain finds out and does not want the feline aboard?” questioned Groves. “Where then, will this kitten go? It most certainly cannot go back to its mother, after having been pulled away from the litter for so long.”

“We can always give the kitten to Captain rhys-Diar. I heard that he is not averse to having such a creature aboard his vessel,” suggested Norrington. A _clink_ and _thunk_ of glasses against wood told Bush that the midshipman was running the sand glasses against each other.

Bush tuned the conversation out, briefly wondering what brought up such a ridiculous topic among his officers before dismissing it from his thoughts. Minutes later, however, he caught their low voices in the wind again, and this time, the conversation was not about ship-cats or rats, it was something entirely different. Mutiny was not on their lips, but this topic was more serious and whispered so that he could barely understand or hear it.

“Mr. Norrington, your grand uncle and my grandfather served in the Caribbean squadron together, is that not correct?”

“Y-yes, sir,” replied Norrington to Groves’s question.

“I believe the three of us know who your grandfather was, Mr. Turner, and it need not be said in this company,” said Groves.

“Indeed it need not,” replied Turner, though Bush thought he caught a hint of uncertainty and hesitation in his first lieutenant’s voice. Did Turner hide something from Hornblower and him during the interview a few days ago?

“Mr. Turner and Mr. Norrington, I would like to ask your opinions on the one question that I have. Do both of you believe that Jack Sparrow stole the _Interceptor_ in a _very_ clever fashion?” asked Groves.

“Do you not mean _commandeered_? It is also _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, mind you, Mr. Groves,” said Turner, jesting in good humor.

“If I may say, I believe that it is ‘stolen’, Mr. Turner. The _Interceptor_ was stolen by what my grandfather claimed to be ‘one of the best pirates he has ever seen’,” stated Groves.

“As much as your grandfather may have claimed to my great uncle that Jack Sparrow was ‘the best pirate he has ever seen,’, the facts still stand that at least my grand uncle fought against piracy,” said Norrington, anger in his tone. “I heard that your grandfather sailed with one who turned privateer then back to piracy!” As if finally realizing his brazenly said words against a higher ranking officer, Norrington muttered an apology, saying, “My apologies, sir. I mean not to slander your family.”

Bush nearly turned from where he was, except that a moment later, a strange sort of laughter from his second lieutenant made him stay where he was.

“I have asked for your opinion, Mr. Norrington, and you have given it to me with all honesty,” said Groves. “I should reprimand you for your words, but let this lesson in your mistake be one that you will never forget: pirate or no pirate, both of our forefathers served in the English Navy, even if circumstances caused my grandfather to serve under a privateer. King and country came first in my grandfather’s service, and that is what he died for. You’d best watch your tongue, Norrington.”

“Come now, Mr. Groves, Mr. Norrington, we should not talk anymore of this,” said Turner.

“Indeed we will not,” agreed Groves, and Bush clearly heard his officers depart, with Groves heading down below, Norrington most likely staying where he was for the man was most likely still running the sand glasses against each other, and finally, hearing Turner climb the stairs to the poop.

The intermittent conversations of those few crewmen on the deck settled in an ambient hum in Bush’s ear as he continued to gaze out in the blue horizon. As he digested the conversation he had overheard, he would not punish Norrington for his words against Groves, for Groves had done a fairly competent job at reprimanding the midshipman. However, he was puzzled as to why his first lieutenant seemed hesitant to speak about his grandfather when mentioned. He put it aside and did not think about it anymore.

“Signal from the _Pointe_ , sir!” called Midshipman Davenport from the mizzen topgallant mast. “She’s sighted sails off starboard!”

Bush immediately took his telescope from his pocket and extended it out in the direction indicated. However, all he saw were the sea and the spots of clouds dotting the sky – there was nothing to indicate any ship. As he kept scanning the horizon, he finally spotted something out in the far edges of the sea. As soon as he could make out that it was indeed a very faint speck of a sail, he said, “Mr. Gibson, would you please pass the word for the Commodore that sail has been spotted?”

“Aye aye, sir,” the boatswain replied, and Bush could hear him hurry down to the stern.

Without taking his eye off his telescope, and continuing to try to identify the speck of white sails waving in the wind, he heard the familiar gait of his first lieutenant come up next to him. “Could it be the French, sir?”

“Could be,” replied Bush.

“Captain Bush, what do we have?” asked Hornblower as the Commodore arrived and extended out his own telescope to have a look at the speck in the horizon.

“Unknown, Commodore,” answered Bush, taking the telescope from his eye to address Hornblower. “Hopefully, the _Pointe_ has already identified the ship.”

Just as the words left Bush’s mouth, Davenport shouted down from the nest, saying, “She’s not the French! _Pointe_ has also sighted multiple ships behind the first ship!”

Bush placed the telescope back to his eye and after a minute or so, he the sails on the lone ship loomed larger than before, but he could also see a very faint line of white sails starting to rise from the horizon. Focusing back onto the lone ship, he noted that indeed, the ship was not of the same build as the frigates that had been pursing them. Bush frowned as he stared at the colors she was flying – he was not too sure, but they seemed to be the old English colors…

“Commodore,” he asked, placing the telescope down again, “Have you any orders or news regarding an English Fleet out in the middle of the Atlantic?”

“I have not,” replied Hornblower, retracting his telescope. “Ha-h’m…strange that there should be a fleet of that size sailing down. Perhaps we should be grateful, for they may intercept and destroy our pursuers or the French fleet from the the Malagasy Republic. Have the _Pointe_ run up a greeting signal—“

“Sir! There’s another ship sailing next to the lead!” said Turner, eye still on the horizon with a telescope.

Both Hornblower and Bush immediately sighted through their telescopes again, and confirmed the first lieutenant’s words. A strange hulk of a ship that carried what looked like to be grey sails and that seemed to be leaking a lot of water, even in areas where there should not be water, was sailing right next to the lead ship. How none of them had spotted the strange looking ship earlier was beyond Bush. Now was not the time to speculate, now was the time to react, and Hornblower reacted.

“Signal _Pointe_ to make her greetings and have all ships hoist colors,” ordered Hornblower. Turning to Bush, Hornblower muttered, “If Vickery has replies before I return, have him state our orders and regrets to not bid them a proper salutation.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush, though before Hornblower could turn and walk away, the crew suddenly shouted, bringing the three of them around to see what had caused the noise.

Surrounding them and what seemed to be overlapping the entire squadron and the visible sea were ghostly sails, masts, and the decks of several ships – pirate ships. On the _Meridian_ ’s own deck, Bush saw several apparitions of people had been standing right where some of his crewmen had been standing, before they had jumped out of the way in fright.

Near the rigging on the starboard side of the ship was a ghostly figure of a strangely dressed person with a peaked hat and flared out sleeves of a long coat. The person seemed to stomp up onto the railing, grabbing the rigging to find balance, and addressed the assembled ghostly figures on the deck. It was the voice that surprised Bush more than the speech as the _woman_ said, “You will listen to me! LISTEN! The other ships will be looking to us, to the _Black Pearl_ , to lead, and what will they see? Frightened bilgerats aboard a derelict ship? No, no they will see free men and freedom! And what the enemy will see, they will see the flash of our cannons, and they will hear the ringing of our swords, and they will know what we can do! By the sweat of our brow and the strength of our backs and the courage in our hearts! Gentlemen, hoist the colors!”

There was a loud, ghostly cheer from the assembled apparitional pirates, as Bush had determined that their shoddy dressage and the demeanor made them out to be anything but. Bush found himself steadied and grounded from the same fear that had gripped his men by Hornblower’s sudden movement through the apparitions. “Courage men! Courage! These things will not harm you!” shouted Hornblower. “Mr. Smith, run up the flags for the squadron to clear for action!”

Bush immediately copied Hornblower’s walk through the apparitions, most particularly through the female pirate who had given that rousing speech to her fellow buccaneers. He did not know why Hornblower had suddenly called for quarters, but the gait and the way the Commodore had set himself, Bush knew that there was to be action seen soon. This time, instead of having his first lieutenant give the orders, he said it himself, roaring, “Beat to quarters! Master your fear! Lively now!”

Immediately the roll of the drums summoning the rest of the crew from their duties sounded, and most, if not all the men on his ship sprang up, drawing strength from the Commodore, who was calmly walking towards the stern, seemingly unaffected by the apparitions on the deck. Bush turned and stepped aside as powder boys ran by, spotting his first lieutenant strangely standing still for a moment, before he blinked and realized that it was an apparition that looked eerily similar to his first lieutenant. This apparition was gazing up at the apparition of the female pirate still hanging onto the starboard rigging. Beyond the ghostly crowd, he saw his first lieutenant bellowing orders to the men. Why did this ghostly apparition remind him or look similar to Turner? He put the though aside and focused on the present.

In a similar calm and controlled manner, he made his way stern, not quite following the same path as Hornblower, occasionally stopping to shout some orders before resuming his walk to the stern. Strangely enough, as he passed through the apparitions, he felt nothing, not even what he had originally imagined to be whispers in his ears or the cold touch of the dead on his skin. There was absolutely nothing.

“Lower the quarter boat!” he ordered as soon as he saw Hornblower duck into the cabin to retrieve Kennedy. “Mr. Smith, signal _Lawrence_ to prepare for Mr. Whittaker’s arrival!”

There would be no running away now for the squadron – there was not a sight of fog or mist, and he did not need to look twice to see what had been the strangest assembly of the English Fleet on the starboard horizon to finally understand that what Hornblower saw and thought were only ghosts of a fleet. Only the imposition of the ghostly pirate fleet they were sailing through seemed to obscure some of the sunlight Nothing around them was real, but Hornblower had called the squadron to action. They needed to ensure that the _Lawrence_ and her precious cargo of information in the form of Kennedy would make it to England.

As soon as he reached his coxswain, he could visibly see that Mr. Harriman was doing his best to not be affected by the ghostly man at the helm with a shadow of what looked to be the captain of the ghostly ship that had been imposed on Bush’s own ship, standing next to the apparition of the coxswain pirate. Bush’s own reasoning for identifying the shadow of the man with a large hat and fancy-looking clothes and jewels that adorned the ghost’s fingers was because of the absolute calm attitude the ghost-captain had on his craggy, pockmarked face.

Below on the main deck, Hornblower and Kennedy had come out the cabin, with Kennedy headed in the direction that Hornblower had indicated where the quarter boat was being hurriedly lowered to the waters. After seeing Kennedy safely to the quarter boat, the Commodore then quickly joined Bush, standing on the opposite side of the coxswain.

Over the sounds of the waves lapping on the hull and the general noise of a ship ready for action, Bush thought he heard a whistle carried by the wind. Out of the corner of his eyes on the starboard side, Bush thought he saw the flashes of canon fire and only turned his head so that he saw a rather large darkly grey mist on the horizon. The flash he had seen was most likely from the obscuring of the sun and the unnatural darkening of the clouds above that seemed to roil in some unknown anger. Bush did not know whether the sky was an apparition or not, for he had never seen the weather change this quickly, even in an unexpected sea storm.

As if his questions were answered by God himself, the heavens opened up in a torrential downpour, but unlike the first time, the rain did not wash away the ghosts and they remained on his deck and around the squadron. The entire ship was drenched in less than a minute, and he shouted to those on deck, “Keep the powder dry, men!”

The ghost ship that had been riding with his crew and ship suddenly leapt out with her black sails unfurled, catching the strong easterly wind, carrying her across and away from the _Meridian_ and the squadron. The ghost of the _Black Pearl_ was headed straight for the ghosts of the English Fleet, fighting for her way of life.

“Maelstrom!” one of the crewmen wailed over the thunder of the rain.

Bush’s eyes followed that seaman’s wild gesticulations and in the distance across the starboard bow, he saw something he had thought was impossible. The once blue sea had turned into an ugly dark color with white-capped waves churning in a circular fashion. The _Pearl_ , almost invisible against such a dark background of the horizon and the ghostly grey sails of the ship that had been sailing next to the English Fleet’s flagship, were drawn into this maelstrom. Bush did not know if it was real, but the winds were certainly pushing the squadron in that direction.

“Mr. Smith, signal to squadron for a hard-larboard turn!” shouted Hornblower, as loud as he could over the noise. Midshipman Norrington was running his gun crew during quarters and could not be spared to send signals as quickly as Hornblower wanted them to be sent.

“Mr. Harriman, hard to larboard—“ shouted Bush at almost at the same time, over the din of the heavy deluge, but was abruptly cut off as soon as he saw multiple puffs of orange-red explosions from the incoming grey wall of mist off the starboard side. Even with all the noise, the telltale of the whistle of cannon fire was still audible to him. Somehow, he knew what he saw was not imagined or an apparition. It was real. “All hands down!”

Bush dove for the rough floorboards of the poop, extended a long arm out to engulf and knock down the Commodore to the deck, as his own crew dove for the sanded deck. He barely had time to bring his own large frame slightly over the winded and slightly stunned Hornblower, shielding and protecting the Commodore with his own body, just as a barrage of cannon fire skimmed, skipped, and ripped through the _Meridian_. Railings on the main deck were smashed as Bush listened, and at least one cannon was sent overboard with the men injured by the barrage howling in pain.

Splinters of wood and flecks of metal peppered the poop, but when the onslaught stopped, Bush lifted himself up, just as Hornblower dragged himself from the slightly indignant knockdown. The Commodore and Captain took in their surroundings – out of the fury of a storm not quite there, the apparitions of a pirate fleet, and an imaginary English Fleet, sailed two French frigates, bearing starboard and larboard. Each of their twenty-eight guns was bared and ready to unleash another bombardment upon the squadron, and they were seemingly steering the squadron straight towards the maelstrom.

 

~*~*~*~

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

“Clever…” muttered Hornblower before shouting for Midshipman Smith to raise several specific flags, giving the squadron their orders in the battle. Those orders had been pre-determined during the squadron’s original mission in the Caribbean and during the captains’ meeting after setting off on their current mission, and thus there was no confusion as to what Hornblower wanted done.

Wood, iron, and ripped pieces of canvas from a section of the starboard main topgallant mast’s boom had been torn off and were hanging haphazardly over a section of the deck. It was only a section – they were still a functional warship, and thus could still fight. They had been fortunate when the broadside they had received from both frigates had been scattered to all ships in the squadron. As Smith quickly ran up several flags, Bush roared to the crew, “Cut that clutter away! Starboard guns, fire as you will!”

Crewmen scrambled to chop the hazard away to dump it into the dark, ugly sea. Bush could not fire the larboard cannons, lest he strike one of the others, and as the cannons fired, the ship rocked. He could see both the _Winter_ and _Pointe_ had responded to the orders, with the _Winter_ turning slightly towards starboard while the _Pointe_ was starting to swing about, determined to cut larboard and under the approaching frigate.

“Sir, _Lawrence_ has Mr. Whittaker!”

Cannon fire bombarded into the _Meridian_ again, this time into her bow and out of the mists in front of them came the hellish wedge-shaped ship of the third and final French frigate. A stinging pain on Bush’s right cheek bloomed as a piece of the bow’s wooden shrapnel sliced him. He ignored the pain and continued to concentrate on the battle. “Hard to larboard!” he shouted, bracing himself against the poop’s railing, turning back for a second to see the exact flags that Hornblower had ordered to be raised. “Fire starboard cannons as she bears!”

“Tell her to make all haste to England and do not attempt to engage!” shouted Hornblower to the midshipman, stepping his way through the debris to get to the railing where he, Bush was. “Captain Bush!” said Hornblower, though he was more shouting his words over the sounds of cannon fire. “With your permission, I would like to take navigational command of this vessel!”

At once, Bush understood what Hornblower wanted to do; with Hornblower at the helm and directing the vessels and the _Meridian_ in a synchronized effort to give the _Lawrence_ a chance to escape with her cargo, Bush was going to be able to be free to direct the cannon fire to keep the French at bay. He would not have to second-guess where Hornblower wanted the _Meridian_ to sail in this battle; his task was to concentrate the cannon fire where it needed to go.

“Permission granted, sir!” he shouted back, just as another round violently rocked the ship, splintering more wood and iron into the decks. “Haul below those injured!” he shouted down towards where several men were lying haphazardly across the blood covered deck.

As Hornblower shouted orders for the navigational path that the _Meridian_ was to be taking, Bush roared, “Larboard-stern cannons! Concentrate your fire on the frigate pursing _Amaranthe_! Marines to the starboard-stern! Fire as we swing about!”

The sharp larboard turn that the _Meridian_ engaged in would have made even the most experienced midshipman stumble, but Bush and Hornblower held their ground. Bush could clearly see the _Winter_ darting past the frigate that had boxed them in on the starboard side, using the churning waters of the semi-apparitional maelstrom as a slingshot, giving her enormous speed. She sprayed the frigate with her cannons as the enemy ship turned towards her and unleashed its own hail of cannon fire, enveloping the two ships in obscuring smoke.

However, with the enemy’s stern exposed, the _Pointe_ sailed in with no resistance and unleashed a barrage of her own cannon fire right into the backside of the French frigate before tearing away with all haste. Vickery had a good head on his shoulders and knew that even with the distraction of the small, more agile, but outgunned _Winter_ , the _Pointe_ could not take on the frigate on its own. The best the two ships could do was to confuse and strike small until the frigate was not a threat anymore. That was not the case in this situation though, and as the French frigate turned to engage this new enemy that had bit it from behind, Bush saw the bow of the _Winter_ push through the smoke, continuing to ride the torrential waters of the half-imagined-half-formed maelstrom.

“Starboard-bow cannons! Fire!” commanded Bush as the larboard turn increased, briefly bringing the bow across the frigate in front of them. A thunderous chorus of cannons opened fire, showering the frigate with iron balls. She answered with a volley of her own, and Bush saw the strikes hit true, ducking only to avoid the fragments from impaling him in the eyes. Men were already at the bilge pumps and more water would be rushing in – he could only hope that the carpenter and his mates were not killed and were repairing the holes as fast as they could.

“Starboard-stern cannons! Give her another round of iron!” he shouted.

“Mr. Smith! Have _Amaranthe_ follow _Lawrence_!” yelled Hornblower from near the larboard side of the ship, which had yet to see as much action as the starboard side. “We will draw their fire towards us and close the gap! As soon as they are clear, we follow them and into the mists, Mr. Harriman!”

“Aye sir!” shouted Harriman, spinning the wheel back to get the ship back on a straight course.

With the rough winds from the storm at her back, the _Amaranthe_ shot ahead, narrowly missing another broadside directed at her tail. Damn the wind and rain, for Bush could not see if the _Amaranthe_ had cleared the entire larboard side of the _Meridian_ so that he could unleash the cannons. However, it was necessary to attract the attention of the frigate bearing down on the escaping _Lawrence_ and _Amaranthe_. “Larboard cannons, fire as you will!”

Eighteen cannons thundered with the storm, and just twenty eight answered her hails from two of the three frigates surrounding her, the ship swung starboard, putting on a burst of speed from a violent gust of wind. They did not escape unscathed from that barrage though, with the _Meridian_ ’s topgallant foremast snapping off, crashing canvas and wood down onto the deck, as Bush saw Hornblower stumble back, and cried out, “Sir!”

Before Bush could move to the Commodore, Hornblower distractedly waved a hand at him through the acrid smoke, shouting, “I am fine, Bush! Keep firing!”

“Fire as they bear men! Aim for the masts!” bellowed Bush, recomposing himself from his temporary moment of panic for the Commodore’s safety. As he glanced around, trying to see where exactly the enemy was moving towards to better direct the cannonade bombardment, he thought he saw the faint outline of the third frigate through the smoke, making its way towards them. They were now most definitely surrounded.

The faint echoes of secondary cannon fire punctuated the downpour, and it told Bush that even though the _Winter_ and _Pointe_ had outwitted and outran their French frigate, they were coming around again to slip into the same foggy mists that the _Lawrence_ , _Amaranthe_ , and eventually, the _Meridian_ were headed towards. The two ships’ distractive fire brought the _Meridian_ some relief as she fired both sides again, enveloping both frigates in broadsides with all thirty-six cannons.

It also seemed that God was on their side, for the howls of the unnatural storm brought the driving rain and wind into the sails of the _Meridian_ , letting her run free of her French captors. She leapt forward, catching the winds in what remained of her sails, her canvas blooming in full. With a final parting shot from the stern cannons to the frigates, she cleared the smoke, letting Bush finally see the stern of the _Amaranthe_ slip into the thick, misty, dark grey fog ahead. Several thousand feet to the starboard-stern of the _Meridian_ , both the _Pointe_ and _Winter_ also slipped into the rolling wall of fog.

“Set our course to follow _Amaranthe_ with all haste, Mr. Harriman,” said Hornblower, hoarsely, as futile cannon fire from the frigates tried to put some more holes into the retreating _Meridian_.

To Bush, it seemed that the wind favored them after all, for the French did not catch the same gust as they had, but they clearly had some wind with them. As he kept a sharp eye on their retreat, he was more startled than frightened that they had been sailing through the apparition of the pirate fleet in their escape. His fear was now mastered, and these things could not hurt him, not unlike cannon fire. His vigilant eyes momentarily relaxed when he was sure that the frigates were well behind them as they entered the fog, he finally turned and stared at the debris-strewn and battle-damaged deck of his ship.

“Vigilance men!” he said, toning his voice down from its usual holler during battle, “Keep to your stations and get the wounded down below!” He gestured to the fallen topgallant foremast and said, “Cut that mast out and haul it overboard! Keep it fast and quiet!” With a partial piece of canvas lost from the starboard side of the main topgallant mast’s boom and the loss of the topgallant foremast’s canvas, their speed was reduced, but enough to still keep a steady pace with the smaller, more agile ships of the squadron. However, he knew that their speed had been compromised against the French frigates – even the maneuvers they could still pull would not be fast enough to avoid a total broadside.

Bush could only hope that in this soupy murk of the mist and fog that they would be able to slip past the frigates and get to open waters to repair. The cutting of the wreck on the deck would make it a bit hard, but if his men could do it quickly enough, perhaps they would be able to slip farther into the mists. He glanced down towards his officers, all who sported wounds, but were still able to walk and direct orders to the gun crews. Looking back towards his coxswain, his eyes settled on the debris littered near the mizzen mast and he realized that there was a body lying amongst the debris. It was Midshipman Smith, and he was dead.

“Mr. Norrington,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady as the only extremely audible sound was the men trying to chop the wreck and haul it overboard as fast as they could. “Take the signal station. Mr. Turner will carry out your gun crew’s duties.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Norrington in a croaky whisper, scrambling up the steps to the poop, pausing only to let the crew carry the body of Midshipman Smith through before making his way to the mizzen mast.

“Mr. Norrington, run up the signal location lantern, bring it right back down, and let me know where each of our ships are,” said Hornblower before turning to look at Bush.

“We survived this round, sir,” said Bush, barely keeping the worry out of his voice. Hornblower sported numerous bleeding cuts all over him, but his cursory assessment of the Commodore did not see anything embedded in his friend. Even with that estimation, it did not abate his concern. Though Bush was well aware that they were not entirely out of danger, he knew that Hornblower needed a surgeon to ensure that there were no embedded shrapnel or anything fouler stuck inside of him.

Before Bush could call for the surgeon to attend to Hornblower, the Commodore said, “Don’t waste the surgeon’s time on me, Bush. I still walk and breathe and there is nothing stuck in me. You, on the other hand, do not even realize that you have something stuck in your left arm.”

Bush glanced at his left arm and sure enough, there was a sliver of wood embedded in it and briefly wondered to himself when did it strike him? He had been so engrossed in the battle that he did not even realize he was wounded. He also became aware that he was also bleeding from the numerous small scrapes and cuts, but with that ugly-looking piece of wood sticking out of his arm like a rose thorn… If it got torn out in the middle of another battle, he could possibly bleed to death, not knowing how deep the piece of wood was embedded into him and if it struck a vein or artery.

However, Bush knew in his heart that could not leave the deck until he could ensure that his men and the ship were safe. Even if Hornblower were beside him, keeping a vigilant eye out for any signs of the enemy approaching, the _Meridian_ was his command. He knew that Hornblower must be free to make decisions and actions without having to contend with the aftermath of battle in a ship’s crew. Though Bush would have rather have Hornblower see the surgeon as soon as possible, just to ease his own worries about his friend, from the way Hornblower was standing and the set look on his face, it was going to be hard to convince the Commodore about seeing the surgeon. “I have had worse,” he said.

“Ha-h’m,” answered Hornblower.

“Sir!” whispered Norrington loudly enough for both Bush and Hornblower to hear. “ _Pointe_ and _Winter_ are about two and three points off our starboard-bow. _Amaranthe_ is directly ahead of us about two hundred and fifty yards. She’s following _Lawrence_!”

The very visible frown that suddenly creased Hornblower’s normally calm and controlled facial features mirrored Bush’s own frown. A very audible splash of scraps of the broken topgallant foremast being dumped into the sea caused Bush to berate his crew, saying, “Quietly men!” However, he held his tongue over any sort of threat of punishment. The crew was already on edge with the battle and they were trying their best to keep as quiet as possible while enacting repairs. They had performed admirably in the brief battle against the frigates – there was no need to threaten and demoralize his crew when they were still not out of danger, but they still needed to keep as quiet as possible.

“Signal to _Lawrence_ for a status report as to why she is not on her way to England,” said Hornblower.

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Norrington and quickly ran up the signal lights for a brief moment before pulling them down again, covering the lights with their cowls. Hornblower abruptly left the poop railing and strolled over to where the midshipman was, gazing out at the fog on the larboard side, which saw less damage than the starboard side.

Only the vague shadows of the squadron’s silhouettes were barely visible, but it looked like that the fog was not going to burn out soon, for thick, dark grey clouds covered the skies, bringing the light rain to bear upon them. The strained whisper of Norrington came back shortly, saying, “Mr. Whittaker is still alive, but _Lawrence_ has been dismasted and only has her mizzen mast, sir! She also states that they are enacting repairs as quick as they can for a second mast.”

“Damn,” muttered Bush, more to himself than to anyone else. The opening volley of cannon fire on the larboard side of the squadron’s original formation must have dismasted the _Lawrence_ then. If the holes and damage on the _Meridian_ were anything to say, then he could only imagine what happened to the other ships.

“Signal _Winter_ and _Pointe_ for information on how they managed to slingshot behind their frigate. I also want a damage assessment on all ships, Mr. Norrington.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Norrington, though Bush heard the confidence within the man’s tone at the rather complicated and tall order that Hornblower had given him.

More splashes of water, this time much quieter than the first time alerted Bush to the falling debris of the topgallant foremast, and as the last of the debris slid away, he could feel the _Meridian_ riding a bit easier through the still choppy and rough waters. However, he could feel that she had taken on quite a bit of water – she was riding lower than she normally would, even after burning through at least a ton and a half of powder. Bush was also well aware that there had not been so far, any sound of cannon fire, but did not allow himself to relax at that fact – the French frigates could still be gliding towards them like wraiths. First, he needed to see if his ship could still maintain her speed…

Walking down the stairs to the main deck, he stopped next to his first lieutenant and said, “Mr. Turner, keep an eye out, I will be below assessing the damage to our hulls.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Turner, and turned to give his gun crews a few instructions before stepping back a bit to keep both an eye on their surroundings and on his crews.

As Bush made his way below, carefully stepping on the wooden stairs that were not splintered and broken, he heard the murmurs of the wounded, quieted most likely by dosages of laudanum, and of the gun crews working to reload and reset their cannons. The sounds of the carpenters at work were also audible and when he asked for his master carpenter from one of the crewmen, he was pointed towards the bow. That was where he had seen the greatest amount of damage dealt by the frigates and sure enough, he saw the master carpenter wading around in water. The master carpenter was poking a rather long stick around certain areas, assessing the water level.

“How much, Mr. Graham?” asked Bush.

“At least two feet in this section and holding, Captain,” Graham replied. “My mates have measured water at least a foot and a half in other places. All are holding for now. There was a hole near the powder room, but the powder is still dry though. Bilge pumps have cleared all water from that area.”

“Good and thank you, Mr. Graham,” said Bush. Two feet and a foot-and-a-half of water in other places meant that they had been very lucky in hull damage, but he was not sure if they would be as lucky the next time they encountered those frigates. The _Meridian_ could still sail, but her speed would be doubly hampered by both the loss of some sail and by the water, though only until the bilge pumps could get most of the water out. Instead, he said, “Make your repairs as quick as possible, Mr. Graham. We may be engaging in battle very soon again.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the master carpenter replied.

Bush left Graham and made his way back up and out, briefly stopping by the surgeon’s ward room to see the multitude of his crew lying on the tables or sitting on the floor, waiting to be attended to. Near the ward room were already a small line of bodies lying on canvas, slowly being stitched up by a few crewmembers and saw the body of yet another of his midshipman, Lachlann, among the dead. The boy had only been around twelve or thirteen years old and had less than a year at sea. He saw the body of Smith next to the boy. Bush knew that those two, Lachlann and Smith, had been best friends, and tore his gaze away from the sad sight.

Before Bush was half-way up the stairs to the main deck, the surgeon’s mate stopped him with a, “Sir! You’re wounded. We should get that out of you before it becomes infected or accidentally breaks off!”

“Do you not have others to tend to that are more wounded than I?” he asked, turning back a bit to see the surgeon’s mate reach a hand up to him.

The surgeon’s mate swallowed a bit and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Then tend to them first! You can find me later – I will not die from this flesh wound!” he irritatingly said, barely remembering to keep his voice down. In a less harsher tone, he said, “When you and Mr. Jones are done, I want Mr. Jones to attend to the Commodore.” It was the least Bush could do to abate his worry about Hornblower, for he knew that Hornblower would most definitely not be happy or approve that the surgeon was attending to him while there were still badly wounded crewmen below.

“Aye aye, sir,” the man said before returning to his work.

On the deck, a gust of wind and the chill of the light rain felt incredibly wonderful to Bush as walked up the slightly splintered stairs to the poop. He caught his first lieutenant’s eye and gave him a nod to ensure that Turner would be able to resume his original duties. Bush was also just in time to catch a small part of the conversation Hornblower was having with Midshipman Norrington about the information from other ships.

“Signal _Winter_ to take the lead. I want _Lawrence_ to be behind her and _Amaranthe_ on _Lawrence_ ’s larboard and _Pointe_ on starboard. We will follow behind the _Lawrence_ until she can get her second mast up,” said Hornblower.

Norrington acknowledged the orders and ran up the appropriate signal lights as fast and as briefly as possible. It was an intricate ballet of ships arranging themselves in the fog, and when it was finally done and all acknowledgements had been read by Norrington, did Bush relax a small fraction. At least they now had a protective barrier around their important cargo until said ship with cargo could be repaired to make her way to England.

“Signal all ships for starboard turn to bear east-nor’east. Keep formation close,” ordered Hornblower.

As Norrington relayed the orders, Bush approached Hornblower and asked, “East-nor’east sir?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, curtly, with impatience and irritation clouding his voice.

Instead of questioning Hornblower further, Bush turned to his coxswain and said, “Starboard bearing east-nor’east. Maintain distance to _Lawrence_.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Harriman replied, gently guiding the wounded _Meridian_ in the turn. As she and the squadron sailed in the easterly direction, their momentum slowed down as all ships were beam reached by the wind. They had been running with the wind, but now that they were about ninety degrees away from the wind, they were not quite close-hauled, but were still catching at least half of the wind in their sails. Minutes later, Bush thought he heard the echoes of cannon fire and walked quickly to the starboard side, though it was futile for him to try to discern anything through the fog.

The crew had also heard the echoes of cannon fire and though they were already at quarters and had not been released yet, a few of them had started to bring the cannons to bear, though Bush heard the whispered exclamations of the gun captains telling them to be quieter about it. Try as he might, Bush could only hear the echoes of random cannon fire and could not even see the flashes of the cannons’ gunpowder exploding. However, he noticed that the water around them was getting rougher than it already was with no wind to justify it. Bush glanced back at Hornblower, who looked completely unflustered and calm. “Sir?” he whispered, gesturing slightly to the water as to not alert his crew too much.

At first, Bush thought the noise was just the waves lapping against the hull of the ship, but as the squadron continued on in silence in their east-north-east direction, the recognition dawned on him that the noise was from the water alone. The east-north-east direction they were taking was taking them either into or perilously close to the semi-formed apparition of the maelstrom. The answer to the question as to why Hornblower was taking the squadron in the east-north-east direction, was already in Bush’s mind even before his previous thoughts completed the question.

Bush thought it was a brilliant idea by Hornblower; the ships would take the half-formed maelstrom and use it to add speed to their escape, hopefully giving them enough to finally outrun the hunting French frigates in this fog. As he watched the water turn more violent, he finally saw the first signs of the half-formed maelstrom.

It was a sight to behold and strangely enough, Bush was not terrified of what the _Meridian_ was about to go through. With the _Pointe_ closest to the half-formed circular well of water that dipped at least twenty-feet below the normal sea level, still depicting the _Pearl_ fighting with the strange grey-sailed ship, Bush saw the fine guidance of Vickery and his coxswain thread the delicate needle to gain the necessary speed to catch up with the _Winter_ while maintaining her position as a starboard shield to the _Lawrence_.

Bush walked quickly back to his coxswain, knowing that soon enough, it was finally the _Meridian_ ’s turn. She caught the edge of the maelstrom, and the deck under Bush was not steady anymore as the _Meridian_ started to buckle and churn her way through the very rough and untamed waves. Both he and Hornblower grabbed the wheel spokes as Harriman struggled to keep the wheel from spinning out of control. Unfortunately, the force in which Bush had to put on his arms to help with the control of the ship as she rode through the torrent caused a lash of pain to bloom on his injured left arm.

Ignoring it, he heard Hornblower say, “Turn two points larboard!” Together, the three of them at the wheel fought against the maelstrom, trying to prevent the _Meridian_ from falling deeper in her clutches. Those two points to larboard took all of their strength, but as the ship sailed forward with a burst of speed from the unnatural waters, they finally achieved the direction they wanted to go. As sudden as the force Bush had to put into the wheel to prevent it from turning towards the natural starboard direction, the churning waters suddenly disappeared as the _Meridian_ escaped the maelstrom and into somewhat calmer waters.

Bush let go of the wheel at the same time Hornblower did and though his left arm was smarting quite a bit, he said to his coxswain, “Well done, Mr. Harriman, well done.”

“Thank’ee, sir,” answered Harriman.

“Mr. Norrington,” said Hornblower, “signal squadron for direction change to northeast.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Norrington and ran up the signal lamps.

“Mr. Harriman, you heard the Commodore. Nor’east it is,” said Bush.

“Aye, sir. Nor’east.”

Bush glanced back at the seemingly never ending battle between the _Black Pearl_ and the strange grey-sailed ship in the throes of the maelstrom before they were enveloped in the mists. Ahead, he could barely see the outline of the ghostly English Fleet the squadron was about to either sail through or pass by. It was a strange sight to see that the seemingly overwhelming number of ships in the apparitional fleet had not engaged the small pirate fleet.

“HMS _Endeavor_ ,” whispered Hornblower, a hint of admiration in his voice as the squadron sailed by the ghost of the three decked ship that was leading the fleet. “She was a first class ship of the line.”

However, before the mists completely enveloped them from the apparitions, two ships appeared on either side of her larboard and starboard, firing their cannons at her as she sailed in between them. The captain of the _Endeavor_ did not even fire a single shot as the ship splintered in to millions of pieces of wood and iron fragments. Ghostly crewmen of the ship of the line were jumping overboard as the once-majestic ship started to sink. It was then that the thick fog completely closed in, leaving the squadron to sail through the grey mists on their own and undisturbed.

The slow minutes of calmly sailing in the near-silence was occasionally punctured by the faint echoes of cannon fire, but each ship length they gained with the westerlies behind their sails meant that they were slowly easing out of danger. Before Bush could finally tell his crew to stand down from quarters and resume normal duties, he heard a shuffle on the deck and turned a bit to see a few of his crew peering over the side.

“What _is_ that?” asked one of the crewmen.

“Dolphin? Shark?” suggested another.

“If it was a dolphin or shark, we woulda seen a fin out of the water!” exclaimed another crewman.

“Back to your stations, men!” hissed Lieutenant Groves as Bush saw his second lieutenant stand up from his crouch in helping a few others of his gun crew reattach a hastily fixed deck wheel to one of the cannons.

“But sir! There’s something coming towards us in the water!”

Groves took one glance over the side and promptly dismissed the nuisance, saying, “It is just a dolphin. Harmless. Back to your stations!”

“Aye aye, sir,” the men replied, somewhat reluctantly returning to their cannons.

Only a few moments later did Bush hear one of the crewmen in Groves’s gun station say again, “Sir…there’s a lady in the water…”

“Mr. Mayberry,” started Groves in a low, menacing whisper, as he walked over to where the lone crewmember was glancing over the side of the railing. “Kindly stand back and stop staring at the water—“

Groves’s reprimand was cut short as Bush cast his gaze towards the men, only to see that his second lieutenant was also staring out over the splintered railing, with a very bewildered look on his face. Bush decided to take action and came down from the poop and approached his second lieutenant’s station, asking, “Mr. Groves is something the matter?”

“Sir…there is a mermaid in the water below,” whispered Groves, his tone half-frightened and half in disbelief.

“Mermaids?” said Bush, incredulous. “That’s preposterous. They only exist in myths and legends. Calm yourself man!” He glanced over the railing, only to see an alluringly beautiful face of a woman gazing up at them from the water. He was not, however, enamored as what it looked like the seaman next to him was, and as he tore his gaze away from the unnatural beauty of whatever it was that looked up at them, he spied something that would convince his crew that this _thing_ was not real.

Bush forcefully tore off a piece of the splintered railing and threw it directly at the woman in the water. It passed right through her face and made a very small splash as it entered the water. “Still and always a myth,” he murmured. He heard several of the crew murmur in exclamations and saw them move back a bit with some looking confused and others looking relieved.

“Sir,” said Groves, worry still in his tone. “I do not think that is unreal.” As he looked towards where his second lieutenant was pointing towards, out in the miasmatic mists, he pulled out his telescope and brought it to his eye, for something had caught his eye. He heard his second lieutenant leave his side and walk over to the larboard side of the ship.

In the distance, he could see several unnatural waves and bumps in the waves gliding towards the squadron on the starboard side, matching the knots that the squadron was sailing in, under the wind. Taking his eye away from the telescope, he squinted a bit, trying to see through the mist, and saw that these unnatural bumps were in the hundreds. He glanced up at the grey sky and saw a very faint shadow of the sun trying to peek through the clouds and mist. The squadron was going to loose their cover soon, but it would give them a clearer view of what was headed towards them… What were they?

“Captain, whatever it is, it is also coming from this side,” said Groves from the larboard as Bush glanced over to see his first lieutenant standing a bit away from his station with his own telescope out, looking at the horizon.

He looked up at the Commodore, who had his back turned to him and was gazing out of the larboard stern. Norrington had climbed down from the mizzenmast’s nest and had a slightly nervous look about him before reporting with a loud enough voice so that Bush could hear him, saying, “Sir, all other ships report the same phantasm we are witnessing.”

A sudden ear-splitting shriek in the distance brought Bush’s gaze from the Commodore back to the murky sea, only to see those unnatural waves and bumps explode as a multitude of demonic-looking creatures with sleek and large fish tails slither and jump in and out of the water. The creatures vaguely resembled exceptionally beautiful women that belonged in legends, except that they were marred by the iridescent scales covering their bodies of fish. As they seemingly drew upon the smell of bloodlust and of the recent battle, their speed increased as they flew and bounded across the sea.

Their soul-rattling cries pierced the still fog, sending the crew into a frightened fury, and caused several cannon shots to be fired. Those cannon fires were accompanied with the shouts of “Harpies! Demons!” from the terrified crewmen.

“Hold your fire!” roared Bush, as his command was echoed quite audibly in similar aspects by the other captains sailing in the fog. He did not even need to look at the Commodore to know that Hornblower was very incensed at the recklessness of the crew. Their attempt to escape into open waters without alerting the French frigates to their location had failed, and only moments after the last echoes of cannon fire dissipated did the horrid apparition of those fiendish half-people disappear. Minutes after the silence had enveloped the squadron again, Bush heard a very faint _boom_ in the distance. Accompanying the low noise was the telltale whistle of cannon fire; the French had found them yet again.

As the dark hulks of the frigates were finally seen in the dissipating fog as the sun started to burn through the mist, Bush shouted, “Starboard and larboard stern, fire!”

 

~*~*~*~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

‘Sea wraiths’ would have been quite a descriptive word, if Bush had been thinking descriptively or imaginatively for words to describe the monstrous shadows of the French frigates emerging from the thick grey fog. However, Bush was not a very imaginative man, and if he had been, he would not have even spared a thought to describe the frigates shelling his ship and Hornblower’s squadron. He would, however, spare only one thought that seemed impossible yet the evidence was before his eyes: in their first engagement, the squadron had bombarded all the ships and he had seen pieces of the frigates shatter, even men aboard the ships get blown to pieces, yet the frigates emerging from fog looked unscathed and untouched.

As Bush muttered a long string of oaths under his breath, he ran back up to the poop and to the larboard side where Hornblower had glanced back to see the formation that the frigates had swiftly sailed in from start to break. One of the frigates was headed larboard while another was headed starboard. The third one was still firing at the stern of the _Meridian_ – it would not be long before the third frigate would overtake and possibly try to board them.

“Signal squadron to loosen formation, Mr. Norrington,” said Hornblower, standing unflinchingly still as splinters and shards of wood flew in the air from the initial impacts of the first round of cannon fire from the frigate. “Have _Winter_ and _Amaranthe_ run circles around the larboard frigate. _Pointe_ will have to temporarily distract the starboard frigate.”

Norrington quickly ran up the appropriate signals as Hornblower turned to Bush and said, “I hope that your men are prepared to take on two frigates, Captain Bush.”

“They are, sir,” answered Bush with confidence, though he was careful not to betray his unease to the Commodore, for he could already see the nervousness that Hornblower was trying desperately to conceal in his undaunted stance. He knew that Hornblower knew the odds were against them, though it seemed that Hornblower also knew of something else, but was disinclined to tell him. It was frustrating, even more so during battle, but Bush was too loyal to damn him.

“Mr. Harriman, hard to larboard!” barked Bush to the coxswain. The shifting deck rumbled with further cannonade impacts, but as the boat tilted towards left in the slightly steep turn, Bush held his ground as he saw Hornblower step back from the larboard railing. Raising his voice even further, Bush shouted to the gun crews, saying, “Larboard cannons, fire as she bears!”

Gun captains shouted and relayed his orders as the _Meridian_ , unbalanced since the last battle had used up quite a bit of her stores of powder since their last supply, rolled sharply onto her larboard side as the apex of the turn was reached. He expected that. She shuddered, not from enemy cannon fire this time, but with a volley of her own at the oncoming frigate she was engaged with helped to push her starboard side down. Bush heard Hornblower suddenly exclaim, “Damn you Vickery! I said distract! Not to put a hole in your own ship!”

Over the thunderous sounds of cannon fire, Bush heard the excruciatingly painful sound of heavy irons rip through a very thick layer of wood. Had his ship been hit with something other than cannon fire? As the ship turned from her apex to fully present her larboard to the enemy, Bush spared a glance to see what had warranted this uncharacteristic outburst from the Commodore. To his relief, it was had not been his ship that had created the awful noise. To the starboard, he saw the _Pointe_ ’s stern almost fully exposed above water as she seemed to fly through the air on her bow to execute an insanely sharp starboard turn. Bush saw that the starboard anchor of the ship had been dropped and had been lucky to lodge under something sturdy, to which Bush thought was impossible, for they were in bottomless sea…were they?

The deafening crash of the _Pointe_ back into the water, mirroring the same exact, desperate move that the ghostly _Interceptor_ had done to fight against the _Black Pearl_ , certainly proved to be a distraction not only for the English squadron but also to the French frigates, all who had momentarily stopped firing for a moment.

It was not only Bush who seized that brief reprieve from the frigates, but also the other captains, rhys-Diar, Rutherford, and Vickery, to command their crews to fire larboard or starboard cannons. The combined vociferous chorus of at least forty-six cannons total from all ships engaged against the frigates lanced out, hitting their marks true. Even Mound in the _Lawrence_ managed to get an entire broadside of nine cannons to bear on the frigate engaged against the _Pointe_ , stunning the enemy into further stupor before a gust of wind managed to fill her sails and spring her forward and clear of danger.

A great cheer rose from the deck that echoed with the ringing still in Bush’s ears from the combined volley, and he saw through the smoke and fog that both the main and fore masts of the frigate they were directly engaged against, crack and fall to the sea. A rush of relief welled up inside Bush as a satisfied smile broke out on his face, unable to be contained.

“That viper can still bite, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, critically, who had been standing next to him, before turning a bit to yell to Norrington, “Raise signals to hold positions and engage, Mr. Norrington!” As Norrington acknowledged the order, Hornblower turned back to say, “We will hold the line and ensure that the _Lawrence_ will make it to England.”

Bush had already known of the intent and had taken the previous statement as he usually did, with the smile disappearing from his face. “Aye aye, sir,” he acknowledged. “Circle around her, Mr. Harriman! Larboard guns! I want her completely dismasted and dead in the water!”

Unable to maneuver or defend as well as she did before, the French frigate limped and feebly tried to fire back with the cannons she had left, but even against a partially dismasted, thirty-six gun frigate, she was no match. As two successions of broadsides smashed into the French hull and blew apart the mizzen mast, Bush was about to order the starboard guns to send a round of iron into the frigate engaged against the _Pointe_ when _something_ impossible exploded out of the water right between the _Meridian_ and her starboard lined shot.

“Dear God, what in the name of nine hells is _that_?” whispered Bush as he stared at the ship that looked as if it had been built out of bones, barnacles, and rotted wood. Long, sickly green-looking strands of seaweed hung from its rails and rigging, while its hemp-looking sails were as grey as the sky, almost blending into the fog. The vessel was leaking seawater everywhere as it emerged from its watery grave, spilling the scent of rotted fish and other putrid unmentionables into the air.

“Is that the _Flying Dutchman_?” whispered an equally surprised Hornblower. Bush glanced over at Hornblower – every sailor knew of the legend of the _Dutchman_ and the portent associated with it. As unsettling as Bush felt, he could not help but feel as if he had seen the ship before, though he could not remember of when he had seen it. It did not help that Hornblower had the most curious of expressions on his face, a smile that was either a grimace or surprise turned to satisfaction. Bush returned his attention to the ship, though before the behemoth had completely settled into the water, he saw that it had run out its guns.

“Hard to starboard!” shouted Bush, just as the mysterious ship opened fire.

The ship tilted steeply in the turn, though instead of the thumping and shuddering impacts of iron against the hull of his ship, Bush heard the whistles of the cannon balls fly overhead and sink into the dismasted frigate. One of the iron balls from the cannonade had struck true and into the powder stores, causing the damaged frigate to explode in a shower of iron, wood, and canvas. As the _Meridian_ completed her turn away from the _Dutchman_ , Bush saw the monstrous ship charge ahead, with a blustery gust of wind behind its sails, towards the _Amaranthe_ and _Winter_ , both whom were still running circles around their frigate.

“She missed us! By God, she missed us and hit the Frogs!” exclaimed Bush.

The portended ship’s charge, however, was not singular, for Bush saw something jerk taut behind the _Dutchman_ and recognized it to be the anchor that the _Pointe_ had dropped to pull her insanely reckless maneuver. The _Pointe_ had either knowingly or unknowingly dropped it upon the _Dutchman_ , and the _Dutchman_ was about to drag her apart. The _Meridian_ was close enough to actually see the crew of the _Pointe_ come to the same conclusion and scramble to find a way to free themselves before the end of the anchor line was reached.

“Vickery…” whispered Hornblower, angrily. “Damn you and your recklessness, man!”

Bush knew that the men aboard the _Pointe_ were doomed, though he had to venture a question that he hoped Hornblower would know something more than what was obvious. “Is there any other way to get rid of that anchor, sir?”

“No,” said Hornblower, flatly.

Neither of them had the heart to say it out loud, but both Hornblower and Bush knew that end of the cable chain for the anchor was attached to a rather large spool sitting near the bow of the ship. When the end of the line had been reached, the spool would be torn from the ship and could very well carry the bow of the ship off. There was not enough time for even a carpenter to chop through all the wood in the spool to release the cable chain.

“Mr. Harriman, take us to the _Pointe_!” shouted Bush.

At the same time, Hornblower also shouted, “Mr. Norrington, run up signals and tell _Amaranthe_ and _Winter_ to break off engagement with the frigate! They are not to engage the _Dutchman_!”

Before the _Meridian_ could run with the wind towards the _Pointe_ , the anchor chain attached to the _Dutchman_ seemingly dropped off, splashing soundly into the water, though the actual anchor remained on the _Dutchman_. Bush almost could not believe his eyes at the miraculous happening, for it seemed that someone on the _Dutchman_ had realized that they were dragging an anchored ship and somehow, had sheared off that thick iron chain. However, he did not spare anymore thought to that as the _Dutchman_ ’s wake left a very pleasing sight of a battered French frigate that was sailing aimlessly away from the _Pointe_.

“Mr. Norrington, signals for regrouping and retreat,” Bush heard Hornblower say. To Bush, Hornblower said, “We shall see if we can catch up with the _Lawrence_ and escape this trap while we still can.”

“Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged Bush, who then turned to his coxswain and said, “Mr. Harriman, take us carefully through this wreckage and then set course for east-by-nor-east.”

“East-by-nor’east,” repeated Harriman. “Aye, sir.”

With all haste and as best of a wind that was possible in these strange and still stormy conditions, the squadron escaped the remnants of the once-mighty French frigates. As the last of the frigates being bombarded by the unexpected arrival of the _Flying Dutchman_ , the last of the ships finally disappeared into the horizon. It was only then, when they could no longer see a threat and were at least a league away from their former battlefield that Hornblower finally retired to his cabin, and that Bush called the men away from quarters.

 

* * *

 

“Sir, how did you know that that ship was the _Dutchman_?” asked Bush as he and Hornblower sat idly in the day cabin, after all the other officers who had survived the past harrowing days had left after the rousing and celebratory meal.

“Mr. Norrington had told me in passing during the journey down to the Caribbean, of the legends surrounding the _Dutchman_ ,” replied Hornblower after a very long moment of silence, in which Hornblower had only looked at his half-empty glass of port with mild interest. “Did you not see the same ship with the apparition of the _Endeavor_?”

“I did,” nodded Bush before adding, “but it was a specter, nothing more! How could this one have been real?”

“Just be grateful that the _Dutchman_ found the French more appetizing than us, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, with a bit of impatience in his tone.

There was a knock at the door and with an ‘enter’ from Hornblower, one of the crew members stuck his head in and said, “Compliments from Mr. Turner, sirs, but sail has been sighted.”

Bush and Hornblower quickly left the cabin, passing by the seaman, and when Bush spotted his first lieutenant near the bow of the ship, he made his way there. Even before he had pulled out his telescope, Turner was already making his report, saying, “Two points off starboard, sir. We spotted her only a few minutes ago. She has not raised her colors yet, but I think that she might be the _Lawrence_.”

Bush confirmed the sighting of faint, white, rectangular topsails in the distance before glancing from his telescope to the sails carrying the wind. “Five or six hours before we catch her…”

Instead of the regulatory demand of all ships in the squadron to match sail with the flagship, the flagship had matched sails with the heavily damaged _Pointe_ to escort her back to England, rather than leave her. Towing the _Pointe_ was not an option because of the way her bow had been damaged in the reckless usage of an anchor. She was riding heavily in the stern to keep as much of her bow off the water until the carpenters aboard the _Pointe_ could fix the gaping hole. The _Lawrence_ had had a good head start on escaping, but with no main mast and only a mizzen mast to push her along the wind, it was inevitable that the squadron would catch up with her.

Bush head Hornblower step away from them and turned a bit to see him call out, “Mr. Davenport, run signal to _Amaranthe_ and have her intercept that ship. Confirmation of identity is needed.”

As the young midshipman acknowledged the orders and hoisted the appropriate flags, Bush turned back and let his gaze run over the horizon. There was not a cloud in sight since the stormy weather ended only two hours ago, and there was also not another sight of a ship save those in the squadron and the sail spotted. He allowed himself the faint hope that perhaps, they were finally done with the distressing ordeal dealt to them in the last few days since they had started on this strange journey home.

 

* * *

 

“Glad to see you survived and are unharmed, Archie,” said Hornblower with a very good-natured tone in his voice, though Bush noted the Commodore was still sitting with a slight hunch over in his chair at the table.

It had been three days since they had left the strange storms and apparitions and not a sign of either had been seen since then. The fears and superstitions of the crews had been abated with a strong north-easterly westerly that gave them hope for a short journey back to England and home. Currently though, squadron was about to sail past the archipelago of the Azores, though however, they would not stop for their original orders to make haste to England still applied. Hornblower, however, had only stopped the squadron briefly to enable the _Lawrence_ to secure a temporary second mast and to gather the captains of the ship aboard for a brief meal and congratulations on their recent performance. Stanley Whittaker had also been transferred back to the _Meridian_ for the remainder of the passge.

A few hours had passed since the captains had returned to their ships and the squadron was well underway. Hornblower had asked both Bush and Kennedy to stay, and both had obliged, though Bush knew it was more for the sake of old friends reminiscing than for discussion of business or orders. He had also noted that now that it was only the three of them in the cabin, Hornblower looked relaxed and calmer than he had been in the past few days. Bush instantly regretted the fact that he had not known just how much to an extent Hornblower had successfully kept his worry from him. At least Hornblower had obliged to having the surgeon look him over after they had stood down from quarters.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, Horatio,” said Kennedy, gesturing to Hornblower’s neck, which had been wrapped quite thickly in cloth that the black neckerchief could no longer be tied correctly, and thus Hornblower had left it off for now. Bush had not even seen the wound on the Commodore’s neck until the surgeon had carefully examined Hornblower and had discovered that several wooden splinters had been embedded quite precariously the Commodore’s neck. That and the fact that Hornblower was still sitting with a slight hunch had shown that he had unknowingly received a wound to his torso.

Bush was glad that his surgeon had attended to the Commodore first, though Hornblower had not been happy about it and had insisted he was fine. The examination had proved Bush’s nervousness and assessment about Hornblower’s health right.

“Looks like you have more battle scars to add to your already-impressive collection, Horatio,” joked Kennedy before turning his assessment over to Bush, saying, “You don’t look worse for wear either, Mr. Bush.”

Bush said nothing in return and merely sipped the wine in his glass that he held with his right hand. His left arm still occasionally ached when that large piece of splintered wood had been pulled out, but that had been the extent of his injury. He had been very lucky with that wound, for it had only penetrated flesh and had not struck a major artery or vein.

“I have to say though, I apologize to have put the two of you, the captains of the squadron, and your ships through what you encountered a few days ago,” said Kennedy after a few moments of silence.

“How could it be your fault, Archie?” asked Hornblower, puzzled.

“You know of Cortez, correct?” said Kennedy, looking at the two of them. Both of them nodded and Kennedy continued, saying at almost a whisper, “After all that we have been through, and what you have faced, I owe it to the two of you and the friendship we share to at least let you know why those things that happened, happened.”

“Archie, are you saying that you caused all those apparitions?” asked Hornblower, slightly incredulous at Kennedy’s statement.

“No, no!” exclaimed Kennedy, waving his hands slightly for emphasis. “I just have an idea as to what might have caused the frigates to show up,” he said, dropping his voice back down to a whisper.

Bush took that opportunity to ease his chair a bit closer to the man, for he knew that even if there were only sentries at the door, someone might still be listening through the woodwork. God only knew how fast rumors aboard a ship spread, even if it were over closed doors. Whatever Kennedy wanted to explain, he certainly did not want it to get out into the crew, and Bush could only guess that it was something that not even he or Hornblower should be hearing. However that twisted his conscious to hear secrets only intended for the King, he also seemed to help him put his agitation of the past days’ events at ease.

Kennedy composed himself for only a moment before saying in a very low whisper, “Cortez’s blood money was in the form of gold. However, this gold was not from the riches of Spain, but from the gold found in the Aztec empire he conquered. Eight hundred and eighty-two identical pieces were made and delivered to Cortez. The gold are worth their weight and are the reason the French have been incredibly lucky in their battles in the Caribbean; they attract the best and most ruthless of privateers.

“The gold was originally thought to have been lost after the end of the golden age of piracy, the island that contained it, sunken into the sea. This is not true, for the French have found the Isla de Muerta. This is the information I bring back to our King and it is why the French frigates were hunting your squadron, Horatio. They were hunting for me and the knowledge I have in my head.”

As if to emphasize his words, Kennedy tapped his head and fell silent, leaving only the creaking of the ship swaying with the wind and plowing against the waves to answer the silence. Confusion filled Bush as he took in the information, but a glance over at Hornblower showed that his friend suspected something. However, it seemed that Hornblower would not press the issue, and said, “Well, that certainly explains a lot. Thank you Archie, for taking us into your confidence. We will not breathe a word to anyone of this information. You have our trust and word.”

As much as Bush wanted to press for information, Hornblower had bound his word into the statement, which tied his hands. For now, at least they had been given a plausible explanation as to why three French frigates had broken the blockade and ruthlessly hunted them. However, that did not explain the apparitions they had encountered. He would put no more thought into the explanation…for now.

 

* * *

 

They had been blessed with a good westerly to bring them home and now, with Kennedy back in the guise of Stanley Whittaker and being rowed to land, Bush could not help but feel a strange sense of relief. The Commodore had only just returned from reporting with the Admiralty and had been told to remain on ship, pending the squadron’s new orders. Both the _Lawrence_ and _Pointe_ had to be scrapped, due to the damage each ship had sustained, and so the squadron was also awaiting the assignments of two new ships for Mound and Vickery. In a rare moment of surprise, Bush found Hornblower eagerly talking to him regarding Kennedy’s ‘wild tale’.

“He is hiding something, Bush,” said Hornblower, quietly, as the sounds of the distant rings of buoys off the port waters of Portsmouth.

Bush kept silent for he knew that Hornblower knew that the intelligence agents with information always withheld certain information. He listened as Hornblower continued, saying, “It is not the ‘ghosts’ that worries me; they are easy to deduce where and why they have appeared. It is the gold he told mentioned.”

“Sir?” asked Bush, his voice as quiet as Hornblower’s was, to ensure that no one could hear them over the blustery wind blowing in the port today.

“Something does not sit correctly between the explanations from Mr. Turner, Mr. Norrington, and Mr. Groves against what Archie said,” explained Hornblower, a bit impatiently, eyes set out against the shore, glaring at it as if it were a bane of existence.

“Mr. Turner and the others were explaining about the _Black Pearl_ and piracy, sir,” said Bush, bewildered as to how the explanations between his officers and Kennedy’s explanation of the Aztec gold were related. “If I may ask, how are the two related?”

“Damnation, did you not _listen_ to what Mr. Turner said that night the first of the apparitions appeared?” whispered Hornblower, fiercely irritated.

Wisely, Bush remained silent, knowing that his friend was venting his annoyance and exasperation out at him and let Hornblower continue. He also hoped that in the middle of this venting, perhaps he, Bush, would receive an explanation that would assuage his own confusion. “There were so many ship-to-ship engagements during the age of piracy! Those French ships may have been looking for Archie, but none of the apparitions started until we sighted those ships and were being pursued by those ships! Every single time we saw an apparition, we have been engaged by those ships. There is something about those frigates that Archie did not tell us about…and it has something to _do_ with the gold he claims to have found. Ha’h-m.”

As brilliant as that explanation was from Hornblower, Bush could still not understand or comprehend where the logic of Hornblower associating the gold and the frigates came from, other than the fact that Kennedy knew of the gold and the French pursuing him. Frustrating as it was, he did not push the Commodore for a further explanation, especially since Hornblower’s jaw was set and those brown eyes of his were smoldering with displeasure.

Bush knew better than to disturb Hornblower and only nodded in agreement with his friend’s words and assessment. He was glad for now, that at least they were no longer surrounded by the strangeness they had encountered, and had the welcoming sight of port and other ships for company.

 

* * *

 

“Your Grace,” said Kennedy, kneeling on one knee and bowing his head as low as possible, that he could definitely smell the faint scent of the dirt of the streets caked in unmentionables wafting off the oft polished floor.

“You may rise, Mr. Whittaker,” said the King.

As Kennedy slowly looked up and finally stood, feeling his limbs ache a bit with age and the lack of movement, he avoided staring directly at the King and looked off to the side where His Majesty was sitting before him. The opulence and lavish decorations in this meeting chamber had initially made him realize just how much he missed England and his home, but he quashed the sentiment. He was here purely on business and to deliver his knowledge. Several guards surrounded the place, but Kennedy had no intention of doing any foul that would earn him a quick death here or a day at the noose.

The King suddenly raised a hand and dismissively waved it with quite impatience.

“Your Majesty—“ began one of the guards, who spluttered a bit before the King cut him off with a quick wave of his hand and a glare.

“We _said_ leave. This man will not harm us, not after you and your men had faithfully accosted him and made sure he is unarmed,” said the King.

Kennedy tried to keep the slight anger he had towards the guards, at the way he had been thoroughly checked for weapons or any other hidden items that could be used to kill the King, from flushing across his face. The search that the guards had done to his person had brought some _very_ old memories that he had hoped would have had stayed buried forever. The only consolation he had from that bodily search for weapons was that none of the guards had found a particular precious and important object he carried with him.

Very reluctantly, the guardsmen left, and after the large doors to the chamber closed, the King seemed to drop all pretenses and said in a serious tone, “We believe this is the first time we have met face-to-face, Mr. Whittaker. We have always seen and have been impressed by your reports regarding the situation in the Caribbean, but why is it that this time you had to report this directly to us?”

“Your Grace, I do not presume to be wiser than you are, but what does Your Grace know of a man called Señor Hernán Cortez?” asked Kennedy, still keeping his eyes directly off the King.

“The great conqueror of those heathens in the jungles who called themselves Aztecs?” asked the King, with an incredulous tone. “We know everything there is to know of this Cortez!”

“Then you do know of the legend of the blood money that Cortez was given to sate the bloodshed?” ventured Kennedy, hoping not to continue to offend his King.

“We do. Speak the information you have, Mr. Whittaker. Our patience is wearing thin,” said the King.

“The gold was cursed because of Cortez’s greed and hidden away at the Isla de Muerta. Anyone who removes but a piece from the chest at the island is said to be punished for eternity to know no life as life is,” said Kennedy, as the King pinned him with a steely look, forcing Kennedy’s blue eyes to stare into the thundercloud of the King’s gaze. “The French have found the island and have used the cursed gold. They cannot die in battle. More and more of our Navy fall each day to their incessant attacks. I was pursued by three cursed French frigates before they were outwitted by the squadron that bore me here, because I know where the gold is.”

The King’s eyes widened at Kennedy’s admission and he shouted, “Map! Bring us a map of the Atlantic!”

A side door to the chamber quickly cracked open and a servant scurried in, bringing a rolled parchment along with an ink well and quill. Placing all three items on the table, the mousy-looking servant quickly left and closed the side door, leaving Kennedy alone with the King again. Judging from the quick glance at him that the servant had given him, Kennedy could only guess that though they could not exactly hear too well what was being said, but were spying from various places to see what his actions were going to be.

The King unfurled the map of the Atlantic, placing several heavy candelabras on the corners of the map before gesturing for Kennedy to approach the table. “Mark the area where this Isla de Muerta is, Mr. Whittaker.”

Kennedy obliged and studied the map for a moment before taking the quill, dipped the tip in the open inkwell and marked the area where he knew the island to be – finally releasing the knowledge that had been in his mind for so many months. His curiosity to ask the King what His Majesty would do with the knowledge was overwhelming, but he held his tongue, for it was not proper for him to question the actions that his King would take. He was an informer, not a director and thus his only duty was to pass on vital information to help England in her efforts in the War against Napoleon.

“Mr. Whittaker, you mentioned that the squadron that bore you to us managed to outwit three cursed French frigates?” asked the King as soon as Kennedy stepped back and bowed his head slightly in deference again.

“I did, Your Grace, though I was not witness to the feat, sire. The Commodore had placed me on a getaway ship so that the rest of his squadron would be able to fend off the enemy and the getaway ship was able to take me from harm’s way,” explained Kennedy. “I had only heard of the feat when we reunited to sail back here.” Though Kennedy knew it was mainly due to the timely and unexpected arrival of the _Flying Dutchman_ , he was not too sure if the King knew of such naval superstitions or stories and thus left the _Dutchman_ ’s unexpected participation out. He also felt that it would not hurt his friend’s reputation to say that Horatio Hornblower outwitted three, twenty-eight gunned frigates.

“Tell us the name of this squadron commander,” commanded the King.

“It was Commodore Horatio Hornblower, Your Grace,” answered Kennedy, proudly.

The unexpected _bang_ of a gunshot echoed around the chamber, but Kennedy’s eyes were not on the King anymore, but had strayed right to the hand of the King that held a small pistol, smoking with the shot that had been let loose. He found his eyes wandering from that and to himself, utterly surprised to see a hole through his jacket and realized that the bullet was inside of him.

Strangely enough, he did not feel any pain, but knew what he had to do. If it had not been for his love of the theatre and watching all those marvelous actors and actresses on the stage, Kennedy would not have known how to properly fall to the ground and _not_ break any bones or bruise himself. The King had shot him, and expected him dead; therefore he would do so, if only to make it look real enough.

The ground was harder than Kennedy had expected as he collapsed into a boneless heap, hoping that his act was convincing enough, and as he made himself still and tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, he closed his eyes and listened. For as soon as Kennedy had made the truthful mark on the map, his curiosity at what the King would do had turned into suspicion.

“Guards!” roared the King. The clatter of footsteps entered the chamber. “Take this filth of an informant away!” Kennedy felt himself being jostled around and heard the King say to another person, “Take this map, make an exact copy and deliver this and our words to the Admiralty: We want this Commodore Hornblower to take his squadron to this place and retrieve everything there. This is vital to the War.”

 

~*~*~*~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

A salt-tinged breeze raced its way across the ships docked in port, bringing with it the faint scents of the bakeries, blacksmiths, and other land-filled smells with it. As Bush inhaled a deep breath, he almost wished they were already back at sea and not still in port. However, he had kept that thought to himself and glanced to his right to see the two new ships that had been added to Hornblower’s squadron.

_Integrity_ and _Groton_ were the new ships, commanded by Vickery and Mound, respectively. The _Integrity_ was a twenty-gun sloop, and the _Groton_ was an eighteen-gun sloop. The entire surviving crews of the former _Pointe_ and _Lawrence_ had been transferred to the new ships. Judging by the amount of cargo still being hauled up to the two ships that Bush saw starboard of the _Meridian_ , it seemed that the commanders were still outfitting the ships. Once Hornblower returned, Bush was sure that they would be aweigh soon, if the steady wind did not die first, and most likely headed back to the Caribbean.

Hornblower himself had been called on shore over an hour ago, reporting to the Admiralty for orders, though he had gone to shore with an uncharacteristic grimness in his features. Bush had wondered if it was because of the recent events that had plagued the squadron that Hornblower had that dark look on his face. If it had been Bush who reported to the Admiralty, then he was sure that he would be carrying the same look – for he could understand how hard it had been to convince the Admiralty of their encounters. At least the squadron had completed her primary mission to deliver Kennedy and the mysterious and, in Bush’s opinion, fantastic knowledge back to England.

“Mew!”

Startled by the unexpected sound that seemed to have come from near his feet, Bush glanced down and frowned, only to see a grey, fuzzy-looking cat sitting on the deck looking up at him. The cat meowed again before rising gracefully and butted its head against his leg. Bush stepped back a bit, as if distancing himself from the creature, though his confusion and bewilderment was short-lived.

“Apologies, sir!” said Turner, as Bush glanced up to see his first lieutenant hurry over to him and quickly scooped up the cat. “Lieutenant Mound’s ship-cat and her family needed a temporary home while the _Groton_ was being outfitted, sir,” continued Turner. “We thought that since there have been a number of rats below in the stores that perhaps we could keep one of the kittens and train it as a mouser. Please accept my sincerest of apologies, sir that this creature has wandered on to the deck. It will not happen again.”

Undignified and as ridiculous-looking that an officer should be holding such a creature while on the main deck, Bush replied with, “Apology accepted, Mr. Turner, though I expect you or whoever is training this creature to train it well. I will not have any officer of mine or any of the crew neglecting their duties to pander to this cat. Take it away and keep it away.”

“Understood, sir. Aye aye, sir,” said Turner before quickly giving Bush a salute while holding the cat in his other arm before calling for Norrington to take the cat below deck, and resumed his duties.

With a nod to first lieutenant to continue overseeing the last of the supplies to be stored in the _Meridian_ ’s hold, Bush returned to the cabin, or more specifically, the shared day-cabin in which both he and Hornblower had been charting their course in and around the Caribbean and back up to England. He preferred to refer the cabin as to Hornblower’s day cabin than shared, due to the fact that Hornblower had spent more time in the cabin than he, Bush, did, and most of the charts covering the wooden table had marks that were made by Hornblower.

Bush himself was a competent navigator, but was no where near the brilliant intellect that Hornblower displayed. As Bush glanced around the large oak table, and slid a particular chart out, the corner of his lips turned up a bit as he saw the scrawls and lines drawn on the chart of the Caribbean islands. Several “x” marks dotted the map, indicating where the squadron or particular ships of the squadron had engaged the enemy. There were more scrawls and quickly written notes that Bush recognized as his own handwriting, when Hornblower had commanded part of the squadron in a separate engagement from the whole of the squadron. Those notes of his had been written there to quickly let Hornblower know of any activities of interest while he was away. Of course, everything in detail was written in the ship’s logs.

To be out at sea again, that was what Bush wanted more than anything, and looking at the chart displayed out on the table only added to his desire. He hoped that Hornblower would return soon, and pulled out another chart, this time, one that was almost pristine and barely marked. It was a map of the Atlantic and only one dark line ran from the middle of the Caribbean towards England, passing the Azores before giving the French coast a wide berth and ended in England.

No markings or “x” had been entered into this chart, even after the strange encounters the squadron had with the apparitions. However, at the thought of what they had encountered, Bush briefly wondered how the Commodore had presented what had happened to the squadron to the Admiralty. Neither Mound nor Vickery had gone through a court-martial, since neither had lost their ships and merely had transferred to undamaged ships. Of course, if Bush were in Hornblower’s shoes, he would have presented the engagement and defeat of _three_ , twenty-eight gunned French frigates by an interceptor squadron with details, but knowing his friend, Bush suspected that the presentation of the squadrons’ activities had be muted. He had wisely not asked the Commodore about the report and had kept his thoughts to himself.

Bush put those thoughts out of his mind, and glanced closely at the Atlantic chart. He had been mistaken when he had seen only just the single, dark line marking the squadron’s journey back to England. Off the African coast, there was a very small “x” mark with a question mark right next to it. With a stark insight, Bush realized that he had forgotten about the potential threat of the French fleet from Malagasy. Even with the fact that he had not set foot on land since arriving at port, he had heard second-hand rumors from the deck hands about Boney’s last-ditched attempt to raise a Navy. Was not the French fleet from that African colony the supposed French Navy? Did Boney himself not even know of a French fleet from the colony?

A knock on the cabin door interrupted his thoughts and he barked, “Enter!”

Midshipman Norrington opened the door and poked his head in, saying, “Compliments from Mr. Turner, sir, the Commodore is returning from shore. He will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Norrington,” replied Bush, giving the midshipman a nod of his head. “I will be up shortly. My compliments to Mr. Turner and have him prepare for the Commodore’s arrival.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Norrington and the door closed, leaving Bush back with his interrupted thoughts.

However, he merely re-arranged the charts and after a few minutes, he walked back out into the salty breeze and cloudy skies of England. As he glanced around, noticing that the main deck was abuzz with activity in preparation for the Commodore’s arrival, he saw that both the _Groton_ and _Integrity_ had finished the unloading of stores and were almost ready to aweigh anchor at a moment’s notice.

Almost precisely fifteen minutes after Norrington had announced to Bush that the Commodore was to arrive, did Hornblower step up to the deck with the shrill whistles and appropriate honors rendered to him. The nature of the interceptor squadron did not allow for any Marine band to be aboard, for they needed every able hand to effectively perform their duties, so the crew could only compensate with the whistles.

Bush immediately noticed that there was an even more solemn look to Hornblower’s normal expression as the Commodore strode onto the deck, hands carrying a small thick, linen package that bore the wax seal of the Admiralty. What had happened on shore to cause this much distress to be shown, even if Hornblower was good at hiding his emotions. Bush held his tongue and merely nodded and saluted the Commodore when Hornblower finally stopped before him. Their exchange of formalities and pleasantries was short and not as long as the first ceremony that had welcomed the Commodore to the squadron months ago.

As soon as the ceremonial welcome was done, Hornblower turned to Bush and said, “Notify the squadron and set course for the Caribbean, Captain Bush. I’ll be in my cabin.” In a quieter voice that was meant for Bush’s ears alone, he heard Hornblower say, “Archie is dead.”

Bush almost fumbled the acknowledgement in the touching of his hand to his hat, at Hornblower’s orders, but managed to say, “Aye aye, sir.”

As Hornblower left, Bush pushed the last statement from Hornblower from his mind and concentrated on the here and now. He turned and barked the orders to his first lieutenant, who had already anticipated the departing of the squadron and had already ran up the hands to the sails. Signal flags were run up by Norrington and as soon as the midshipman acknowledged and relayed replies from the other ships, signaling their readiness to depart, Bush gave the order to set topsails.

 

* * *

 

Following the captains’ meeting in which Hornblower discussed the orders they had been given, dinner with the captains was a hearty meal, though Bush could not help but notice that Hornblower was even quieter than he usually was. Bush knew that it was not of the orders they had been given that kept the Commodore unusually quiet, but of the unexpected news of Kennedy’s death. He himself had not had the time to even put any thought to the man’s death, for after they had sailed from port, Bush had been very busy. The squadron had not been ordered back to the Caribbean to continue their patrols or intercept of French ships breaking the blockade – they had been given a very specific mission to head to a particular area in the middle of the Caribbean sea.

What they were to do there, Hornblower had yet to say, though strangely enough, the squadron had also been ordered to destroy or take as a prize, any enemy ships that sought to prevent their arrival to the area or return to England. Though the Admiralty in the Caribbean was closer, it seemed that the Admiralty wanted these ships to be specifically brought to England.

Now that he had time, he had thought about Hornblower’s statement and the miserable nature of his friend, but nothing appropriate could spring to his mind as to how he was to help his friend through the grief that Hornblower obviously tried to hide. It had not helped that immediately after the captains’ dinner; Hornblower had dismissed everyone from the cabin. His half-hearted musings on deck in the night, only minutes after the entire squadron had set sail again for their destination, was interrupted when young Midshipman Davenport walked up to him and said, “Pardon the interruption sir, but the Commodore requests your presence in the day cabin.”

“Very well,” he replied, and after a quick glance around the darkness with small portions of the _Meridian_ only illuminated by candle lamps, he left.

Knocking on the cabin door, he heard the faint ‘enter’, opened the door and stepped in, closing the door behind him while removing his hat. He found Hornblower sitting at the oak table, the charts, compass, and other paraphernalia scattered around the Commodore. There were also a few leaflets sitting on the table to the right side of Hornblower, and two large volumes of journals sitting open in front of him. Hornblower was currently scratching away at one of the journals, and Bush recognized the other open one as his own log.

He remained where he was, standing near the door, unwilling to disturb his friend who had an intently concentrative expression on his face, though Bush thought he could still see the solemnity on Hornblower’s face. He did not know how long he stood there, waiting for Hornblower to acknowledge the reason as to why he, Bush, had been summoned, though he hoped that it would provide him an opportunity to try to comfort his friend in his grieving. However, at long last, Hornblower finally placed the quill down and looked up, his expression a curious mask of impassivity.

“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower at long last, “I would like to discuss the orders from the Admiralty with you.”

The unexpected invitation from Hornblower threw Bush off for a moment, but that moment passed quickly as he complied and sat down, opposite of Hornblower, eager to discuss the details of the Admiralty’s orders. Balancing his hat on his lap, he folded his hands on the table and waited for Hornblower to speak.

Without preamble, Hornblower pulled forward the sheaf of leaflets bearing the neat scrawl of a secretary of the Admiralty and the seal on the first and foremost leaflet, and said, “The Admiralty has stated that these orders are directly from the King himself.” Hornblower pulled the second leaflet out from under the first sheet, and turned it so that Bush could read the lettering on the small chart right side up. “What we find in this place will be vital to the war and must not fall into enemy hands.”

Far be it that Bush had heard Hornblower’s first statement, but as he took a closer look at the small chart provided with the orders, he realized that where the location that the Admiralty had indicated was fairly close to where the squadron had first encountered the three French frigates and the first apparitional sighting. “Sir,” he asked, “is not this ‘x’ near the area where we first saw the French?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, curtly, before pulling out the larger navigation chart that had the small “x” mark near Africa. “The Admiralty is well aware of the Malagasy fleet and reports of the fleet have them near the Gulf of Guinea at one month past. They have indicated that the French are headed in the general direction of where our destination lies. We can only hope that the French have encountered the reverse oceanic tidal flow and have stalled. If they have not, then they will be riding the faster sea current, and will catch the trade winds once they enter the Caribbean waters to bring them nor’west. If we keep our heading sou-sou’west, we can catch the eastern edge of the trade winds to bring us hopefully there, first.”

Bush understood that there was a good chance that the squadron would encounter the French fleet either at their destination or even before, for the last marked location had them near the edge of the South Equatorial current that would be able to carry the fleet into the southeast Caribbean. That current was the faster of the one that the squadron would be trying to catch, the Canary current. The squadron’s main hope to out sail the fleet was to catch the trade winds that would boost their speed through the current – that and the hope that the French fleet did not have as competent and brilliant navigator as Hornblower was.

“Should we encounter the fleet, as I had said during the meeting, we are under orders to either destroy or capture ships as prizes,” continued Hornblower. “The squadron is not equipped to deal with the fleet, so our best chance is to isolate one ship from the fleet at a time. With at least half of the _Meridian_ ’s cargo hold empty, it seems that whatever the King expects us to find there will be great and heavy. Prize crews will mostly be taken from the _Meridian_ , if the ship is small, and that prize crew will follow us to the location and back to England, unless the damage to the ship is too great.”

“Sir, what if the French have what ever the King has asked us to retrieve?” asked Bush.

The intense glare that Hornblower gave Bush was full of displeasure that spoke volumes as to what Hornblower thought was the obvious answer. The Commodore followed up the glare with the answer, “We chase the fleet and herd it towards our fleet for assistance in capturing the ships and her cargo.”

Bush remained silent at that, though he could not help but admire at the audacity and sheer confidence at Hornblower’s simple statement for a simple solution to the problem at hand. Bush knew that the criticism laced in the reply meant to hurt him, but he knew his friend too long to let it affect him. He saw Hornblower’s expression darken a bit in irritation, and squared his own expression back to what he hoped would placate his friend from unleashing yet another critical word. The only consolation he had was that at least he had managed to make Hornblower a bit angry and not glum, though he knew that it was a long way from having Hornblower try to open up to speak to him about Kennedy’s death.

“Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower after a few moments of slightly awkward silence. “Assuming that there are no French ships in our path, when we arrive, the _Groton_ and _Integrity_ will be sent on long-ranged scouting with the _Winter_ and _Amaranthe_ staying close to us. The landing party will consist of you, me, a few of the _Meridian_ ’s Marines, and a few crewmen. I recommend taking Mr. Turner with you for the shore party.”

Bush nodded, grateful for the advice from Hornblower, though he could not help but wonder why Hornblower was recommending his first lieutenant to be in the shore party. Perhaps it was because of what Hornblower had unexpectedly discussed with him when they had first arrived at port? He knew that he could not take all the officers with them to shore, especially not Groves or Norrington, for he knew that the young midshipman, Davenport, was not quite ready to command a ship, let alone a squadron.

Bush felt that Norrington, from the way he behaved and his actions was quite ready to attempt the test for lieutenant, though certainly did not have the necessary experience in commanding a ship. Perhaps if they caught a prize, he would let the senior midshipman command it for experience, for Bush cared not for the familial histories of those under his command and preferred to judge them by their actions and merits.

Groves was as competent of an officer as Turner was, though it was just the commission dates that garnered the fact that Turner was first lieutenant and Groves was second lieutenant. Briefly giving thought to it, Bush found that in a way that commissioned date harkened back to the separation between him and Hornblower; when they had been lieutenants aboard the _Renown_.

“I will consider it, sir,” answered Bush, though he had another question regarding the task they had been given. “Sir, what if we encounter the French after retrieving what ever is in this area?”

Instead of immediately answering him, Bush saw Hornblower pull out the heavily marked map that had both his and the Commodore’s short notes and marks of interest. Tapping the map with the feathered end of his quill, Hornblower said, “We know where the heaviest concentrations of the English fleet are around the colonies. As soon as we retrieve the items for the King, you, Captain Bush, will sail straight for England. I will transfer my command of the squadron to either the _Amaranthe_ or _Winter_. Should we encounter the French then, then the squadron will intercept, screen, and push the French back to where the greatest ship numbers of our fleet are. Under no circumstances are you to turn back and help us; what the King has asked us to retrieve is more important than any of our lives. What ever it is, the Admiralty has stated to me that it could potentially turn more tides in the War than ever before.”

Bush knew then that his hands were tied, and with the intense look that Hornblower was giving him, he knew that his friend and commander would not take ‘no’ for an answer. ‘Duty’ was the core of Hornblower and his life a very distant second, when it came to his service in the His Majesty’s Navy. Very reluctantly, Bush replied with, “I understand, sir.”

“That will be all, Captain,” said Hornblower, gathering back up the leaflets and putting them back to their original spot on the right.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush. He slowly stood up, taking his hat with him, but did not place it on his head just yet; he at least wanted to try to help his friend achieve some closure, before their task potentially became complicated. Bush took a breath, mentally steeling himself, for this was to be the first time he had ever attempted to openly console Hornblower, and said, “Sir, I am sorry to hear of Kennedy’s death. There was never a better friend or sailor as he. If you need someone to talk to, I am willing to listen.”

The quill stopped its scratching on paper, but Hornblower did not look up from his reviewing of the journals. Not even a word was spoken as Bush silently placed the hat on his head. He gave a small tip of his hand to the hat and left, closing the cabin door softly behind him. Strolling back to where he had been on the main deck, Bush could only wait and hope that perhaps, Hornblower would acquiesce to his subtle request, even if Bush did not know Kennedy as well as the Commodore did. If his friend chose not to acknowledge the request, then at least Hornblower knew that he was not alone in mourning a good man’s death. That was the best Bush could do for the only person he knew best.

 

* * *

 

Deep in the bowels of the _Groton_ , laid curled a man who kept himself hidden as best as possible whenever the crew of the _Groton_ passed through the area. It was only through luck and the chaos of outfitting a ship that no one had discovered that they had a stowaway aboard the ship. Kennedy preferred it that way. At least the _Groton_ ’s ship-cat and her remaining kittens were not adverse to his presence here.

With no candles or lamps burning in this area, for there was no reason to unless the crew needed to retrieve food stores, Kennedy laid in the darkness, listening to the repetitive sounds of the waves breaking over the _Groton_ ’s hull. It was to this sorely missed sound that he fell asleep to each night since the squadrons’ departure on their mission to Isla de Muerta.

How hard it had been for him to continue to fake his own death after the King had shot him. It was only when the undertaker and his assistants in the dingy morgue that the guardsmen of the King had taken him to, had briefly left the room did Kennedy try to make his escape. He was grateful that at least the guards did not just dump his supposedly dead body out in the streets and in the filth. Luck had also been with him when he managed to steal a ride back to the port with the carriage that carried the orders for Hornblower and his squadron to the Admiralty.

However, it had not been luck that had prevented him from dying of a gut gunshot wound; it was the gold coin that had a skull imprint on both sides, one of the eight hundred and eighty-two pieces from Cortez’s cursed chest that had saved his life.

In the darkness, Kennedy fumbled around a bit and finally pulled out the cursed coin, running his fingers over the skull imprint, even though he could not see the coin. His incarceration aboard one of the three pursing French vessels after the French had discovered that he was a spy for the English, had come with this price – immortality with no humanity. His escape from the French had been timed by pure luck in a minor skirmish between some of the English Caribbean fleet and the French ships.

The fact that he had literally turned immortal still had not deterred him from his duty to report the information for the King. He could not let the Caribbean Admiralty know of the gold or its location, for even as noble as they were, Kennedy had learned long ago to never doubt that everyone had ulterior motives. The threats of a possible immortal French fleet weighed heavily in his mind, and so he had pressed the Caribbean Admiralty to have him personally deliver the report to the King, for it concerned not only the Caribbean fleet, but the entire English Navy.

Having discovered the immortality and the effects associated with it, Kennedy was sure that the French had taken upon themselves to guard the gold with vigilance and had probably even counted it. It was most likely that way, for he could not confirm it true or not, though the pursuance of the French ships was most likely due to the fact that the French wanted the curse to break for their three ships. Kennedy was ardent to let those aboard the ship suffer without remorse, but he had not anticipated that it would be Hornblower’s squadron who would pick him up and transport him back to England. He had not wanted to put his friend in danger. He could not die, but no one else in the squadron was immortal, and he had felt the remorse for Englishmen’s deaths keenly.

Kennedy silently sighed as he rubbed the cursed coin between his thumb and index finger; he should have listened to his own advice, for he had thought the king more noble than greedy. He had also wished that it was not Hornblower’s squadron that was to retrieve whatever was in Isla de Muerta, but another squadron. As soon as the King had shot him, Kennedy had made up his mind to return to the cursed archipelago of islands, not to help the King claim the cursed gold, but to destroy it.

He knew that Hornblower was under orders to retrieve the gold, but he had not told his old friend that the gold was cursed. Hornblower most likely heard of Kennedy’s ‘death’ through the Admiralty, if the Admiralty even deigned to name it. As much as he wanted to tell Hornblower that he was alive and well, he knew that he could not, for it was better for him to be rumored dead than to have questions directed to him as to how he had survived such a fatal wound.

There was one question in Kennedy’s mind though, and one that he knew that would plague him the entire journey to Isla de Muerta. Would he be able to make Hornblower see the futility and horror that would be inflicted upon the English Navy through one man’s greed for the cursed gold?

 

* * *

 

Seven bells of the first watch had just rung by the time Bush entered the shared day cabin to get to his own cabin that was adjacent and on the larboard side of the ship. Whoever had designed the ship had placed two cabins in the stern on opposite sides with a shared day cabin by both. Bush had briefly speculated that the arrangement was so that the steward would sleep in the same area as the captain he would be attending to, but Hornblower’s steward, Brown, was berthed with the crew, letting Bush have the spare cabin in the larboard-stern while Hornblower had the larger starboard-stern one.

Bush expected Hornblower to be sleeping when he entered the day cabin, having knocked before and received no answer, and was surprised when he saw the Commodore still sitting at the oak table. However, the logs were closed, with charts and other pieces of leaflets pushed off to one side. In Hornblower’s hands, he was swirling a small tumbler partially filled with a light amber liquid. The origin of the amber liquid was sitting in a corked glass bottle off to another side. Where had Hornblower gotten the whisky, Bush did not know, for he had never seen it before until now.

“Pardon my intrusion, sir,” Bush quickly said, covering his slight surprise. Hornblower had not even looked up to acknowledge his presence, and had a forlorn and slightly vacant stare directed at the table. Bush was not sure if Hornblower was in the middle of thinking over something or just did not wished to be disturbed, so he said, “I wish you a good night, sir.”

Before he could enter his own cabin, he heard Hornblower whisper, “The Admiralty told me that Stanley Whittaker tried to kill the King.”

“Sir?” asked Bush, turning slightly around to see Hornblower looking up at him, the tumbler still spinning idly in his hands on the table. He was not sure if the comment that his friend had made was an invitation for him to sit down at the table to listen or just a passing statement made in absence.

“Bush…” began Hornblower, before he took a small sip from the glass. Fortified with some more liquid courage, Hornblower continued, saying, “William, when Archie confessed to pushing Captain Sawyer into the cargo hold, did you believe him?”

As surprised as Bush was with the first time that Hornblower had ever called him by his given name, he could clearly seen the anguish spring into his friend’s brown eyes, and quickly took a seat at the table, ready to offer his full-hearted support to Hornblower. He answered truthfully, saying, “No, though I believed that Kennedy did what had to be done…sir.”

“What had to be done,” echoed Hornblower, twirling the glass around again. “Those were the same words that Commodore Pellew said to me. Nothing…in all the years that I have known Archie, nothing had ever indicated that he was capable of such a deed…and now this? An attempted but failed regicide?”

Bush remained silent as Hornblower fell silent, taking another sip of the whisky, though the way Hornblower took the sip indicated to him that this glass was not his first, and certainly did not look like his last. Worry crept into Bush’s mind, for he knew just how much wine Hornblower had consumed at the captains’ dinner and the port that followed it. Just how inebriated was his friend?

“I think the King had Archie killed after he had given his report,” stated Hornblower in a whisper after a few minutes of silence.

Bush was stunned for a few moments at the proclamation, for it was a very bold and dangerous accusation to make, even if it was whispered. This was very unlike Hornblower and his concern for his friend’s mental health increased. “Sir?” he asked, letting the worry he felt creep into his voice.

“Think about it, Bush,” snapped Hornblower, placing the glass on the polished oak table with an audible thud that caused some of the light amber liquid to splash out. “Archie has important information for the King’s ears only. If it is that important and he tells the King, now two people know. What better way to keep it a secret to ensure that Boney does not get wind of it than to kill the messenger? Both you and I know that spies could be anyone and switch sides easily.”

“But Kennedy is a patriot to his King and country, through and through,” said Bush. “Surely the King knows that, sir?”

“Yes, I have no doubt that Archie is a true patriot,” said Hornblower. “But the King may not know or care. Do you not remember that incident with that French ally and spy of ours aboard the _Hotspur_?”

“Yes,” answered Bush, grimacing slightly at the recall of the memories associated with _that_ particular incident. “I do remember it, sir. Surely the King is more benevolent than ordering the execution of a person with important information.”

Even with that appeal from Bush, Hornblower would not turn from his train of thought as he shook his head in disagreement and took the rest of the whisky down in one uncharacteristic gulp. However, before Hornblower could pour more whisky into the glass, Bush had leaned in to cover the glass with his right hand, pulling it slightly towards him and caused Hornblower to look up sharply at him in annoyance. Bush clearly did not miss how blood-shot Hornblower’s eyes were from either the drinking, hidden tears, or a combination of both.

Before Hornblower could say anything, Bush said, “Sir, I think you have had enough for tonight. I think some sleep would do you good. If you wish it, we can talk about this some more, tomorrow.”

It was either something in the way Bush pleaded for his friend to stop drinking himself into a stupor shattered Hornblower out of his foul and inebriated mood or something else, Bush would never find out. However, the irritation at Bush’s boldness melted away as he gave a slightly blank stare at Bush before those brown eyes tracked down to the hand covering the glass. Hornblower blinked owlishly before sitting back a bit, staring at Bush’s hand, as if mesmerized.

Bush could not quite catch the whisper that Hornblower mumbled, though he thought he had heard the words ‘rough hands’. However, Hornblower looked back up and said with more of an audible slurring in his voice, “Tomorrow…is…good. Good night, Bush.”

As Hornblower rose from his seat, steadying himself on the table before taking wobbly, but sure steps to his cabin, Bush also rose from his seat, taking the glass in his hand with him. Hornblower was not quite drunk enough to have Bush assist him to the cabin, but Bush watched his friend slowly make it to his cabin and fall into the hammock, still fully clothed. The gentle, rhythmic snores immediately started up. Placing the empty tumbler back on the table, Bush managed to pull Hornblower’s boots and uniform jacket off before covering his friend in the scratchy, woolen blanket.

Before shutting the cabin door behind him, Bush whispered into the air, “Good night and sleep well, sir.”

 

~*~*~*~


	7. What Should Have Passed, What Should Have Been, What Should Have Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

Neither Hornblower nor Bush ever spoke of or continued the conversation they had that night again. The morning after had only brought a ‘ha-h’m’ from Hornblower, and Bush had the grace and courtesy not to push his friend to continue to speak or bring up the topic. As the squadron sailed with all haste down to the Caribbean, hoping that they would out-sail the French fleet, it was during the second week since their departure from England, when they finally caught the southwestern flowing trade winds that would accelerate them to their destination.

It was during one cloudy, moonless night that strangeness that had prevailed the squadron during their journey back to England, returned, though this time, it was not in the form of apparitions, but dreams. Not all in the squadron fell victim to the extraordinary dreams, but with the pride of men and their need to master their own fears, no one dared to whisper a word of what they had seen during their sleeping visions. It was about three days before the squadron reached their destination that both Hornblower and Bush began to have dreams of what could have been…

“Renown _! We’re taken!”_

_Bush found himself standing in the middle of the Renown’s main deck as the chaos of a vessel being commandeered by enemy forces exploded with full force. Sailors, Marines, and the Daegoes surged through him as if he were not there, standing in his full dress uniform, sans his weapons. Somewhere in his mind, he knew it was a dream, though he did not know how to escape it._

“ _Every man on deck!” someone shouted as war cries sounded in the air._

_He saw himself, younger and certainly, in his own opinion, a little more reckless than he was now, emerge from officers’ wardroom just moments after alerting the crew to the Daegoes’ treachery. His sword was in his hand, and as he emerged from the cover of the lower deck and towards the stairs, a burly Spanish crew member lunged at him, bringing his sword down as if it were an axe. Bush parried and with all his strength, pushed the man back, lifting the man’s arms above and sliced deeply into the Daego’s chest, killing him. As the burly man tumbled, there was not a moment of rest or time to get rid of the blood on his blade as he climbed the steps up, only to stab yet another Daego in the guts, before pulling his blade out, quickly throwing himself to the side to let the second dead man tumble ungracefully down the stairs, landing on the lower deck with an unceremonious thump._

_Bush saw himself engage against the enemies with fluidity that could only be ascribed to youth and glanced down the hatch to see_ Renown _’s Bo’sun’s mate, Styles, clamber up the steps, following his younger self closely. Moments after both his younger self and Styles had vacated the lower deck, he saw the still-youthful and boyish looking Kennedy emerge from the shadows of the deck, mercilessly stabbing with his blood-coated blade at a Daego before picking up an unused pistol and shooting a Daego that was trying to get down the steps to the lower deck, dead center of the Spanish’s mass. Kennedy then scrambled up the deck before peeling off to his left, launching himself with vivid fervor at one of the Daego officers._

_Where Bush was standing, he had a full view of the chaotic battle for the ship, yet there seemed to be no one in his immediate vicinity of at least an arm’s length away that was engaged in battle. He felt no compulsion to move from where he was. It was strange, but he wondered why he was dreaming of this long-ago happening, when he had not thought about it for many years. He suddenly felt his gaze drawn to where the poop was, and where he saw Hobbs fighting for his life, right in front of the door to Captain Sawyer’s cabin. He could not hear what Hobbs was shouting._

“ _Hobbs, the enemy is here!”_

_Bush was slightly startled to hear the clarity and forcefulness of his own voice cutting through the cacophony of shouts and cries, calling for Hobbs to aid him and to stop dithering at the door. In hindsight, Bush now knew that that order should not have been given, for that had led to Captain Sawyer’s death. He saw Hobbs drop his guard for a second, and it was enough for the Daegoes to push and overwhelm the stout man. Had Bush been paying more attention, he would have rushed to Hobbs’ aid to fend off the Spanish from breaking into the captain’s day cabin. However, he saw himself pull his bloody sword out of yet another escaped Spaniard before two more rushed him, surrounding him front and back._

_Bush saw himself leap forward to engage the enemy in front of him, though exhaustion caused his swinging of his sword to falter and the taller, burlier man deflected it with ease before quickly raking his own blade right across Bush’s lower torso. Even in the dream-like state, Bush could not help but feel a phantom pain across his stomach where scar of the wound was all but faded. Wounded, Bush saw himself collapse onto the sand-and-blood-soaked main deck, with Styles miraculously behind him, blocking and killing the second attacker before a pistol shot felled the first attacker._

_Through the smoke, he saw Hornblower, youthfully lanky and full of energy, heroically climb aboard, shouting a rally cry of, “To me,_ Renown _!”_

_Bush had not heard that rally cry of Hornblower, for he had passed out very briefly from his wound, only coming to very briefly when he had heard the tumultuous cry of the sailors, rushing to restore order to the ship behind the reinforcements that Hornblower brought with him. Seeing this strange dream, though, caused him to feel a great deal of admiration for Hornblower, even though these events were long past._

_Not a few moments after Hornblower rallied the crew, he felt his gaze drawn inexplicably away and up towards the poop, where he saw Colonel Ortega briefly glance down at the main deck before pulling out his pistol to line up for a shot. It was then, that Bush had woken back up from his momentary unconsciousness, grabbing what had been a blessing of an unused pistol from the nearest dead person and had carefully aimed it at Ortega. However, in this dream-like state, Bush clearly saw the aiming line that Ortega’s pistol was intended for – Hornblower engaged against a Daego officer._

_Bush had shot Ortega before—No! The dream he was trapped in showed Ortega taking the singular shot at Hornblower, just as another crewmember of the_ Renown _stepped right in front of the intended shot, seemingly wrestling with a Daego. Kennedy! Bush saw the man stagger a bit, a surprised look passing over his features as the bullet punched into his gut. Another singular, accentuated shot filled the air as Bush saw himself finally pull the trigger on the pistol, felling Ortega before succumbing to his wound._

“ _Archie!”_

_The shout was not a part of the battle, for Bush, still stunned at the strange turn of events – for he had clearly remembered that he had pulled the trigger_ before _Ortega could get a shot off, killing the Daego colonel – heard it clearly and not muddled like the dream shouts had been. To his surprise, he glanced back and saw the clear-cut, fully dressed sans weapons, of Hornblower in his uniform, staring at the scene before him. Bush could not fathom how he had not noticed the Commodore in this strange place before. However, before Bush could even think about trying to get the attention of the Commodore in this dream,_ he blinked…

_Ding-ding_.

Momentary disorientation overcame the normally rational and calm side of Bush as he rapidly blinked, the images of the very strange dream fading from his vision. He recovered his wits quickly enough that he realized that two bells of the morning watch had just been rung. Dawn was close, and though try as he might, he could not fall back asleep, though he knew it would be futile to, for he usually awoke at three bells and therefore, getting another half-hour’s worth of sleep was not going to do him much good, not with what he had just dreamt.

Throwing the woolen covers off, he got up, cleaned his face as best as he could, though whenever he closed his eyes, he saw that strange image of Kennedy being fatally wounded by the shot from Colonel Ortega. Shaking his head a bit to try to rid himself of the memory that did not happen, he was dressed and about to emerge onto the deck within ten minutes since waking up. Before he left the day cabin, he quietly knocked on Hornblower’s door, knowing that he would face the wrath of the Commodore for waking him before the usual time that Hornblower awoke. There was no answer, and though Bush was not an intrusive man, the recent dream of events had him a bit anxious, and therefore, prompted him to gently open the cabin door. He found the Commodore sleeping in the hammock, though his expression seemed to be twisted a bit with worry with a dream. Quietly closing the door, Bush retired the cabin and emerged onto the deck.

An unnatural fog that usually did not plague the early summer weather in the Atlantic had enveloped the squadron when Bush walked from the shelter of the cabin and onto the main deck. He glanced around, noting the denseness of the fog was not enough that it obscured the other ships of the squadron, but enough to cause him to be slightly unsettled. This situation and scenario was almost the same as when they had seen the apparitions.

“Good morning, sir,” said Norrington, the current officer of the watch as Bush made his way up to the poop. “The foggy mist settled in about fifteen minutes ago and it looks like, despite sun rise in a few minutes, it might thicken. Shall I have the signal lights run up?”

Though Hornblower was in charge of the operations of the squadron, he was not yet awake, and identifying where the ships currently were was priority. “Do so, Mr. Norrington,” he commanded, knowing that in the same situation, if Hornblower was awake and walking on the deck, he would have given the same order. “Relay the signal to the squadron and hoist one yellow lamp on the mizzenmast.”

Before Norrington could relay the order to Davenport, Bush interjected and asked in a whisper, “Mr. Norrington, any sign of apparitions since the fog has rolled in?”

Even with the frightening and unnatural circumstances that had initially plagued the squadron as they were sailing out of the Caribbean, Bush had kept a mental note as to what latitude and longitude they had encountered the ghosts – they were currently sailing roughly at the same longitude as their encounter with the ghostly army of mermaids, though their latitude was much steeper, due to their course in the eastern edge of the trade winds.

“No, sir,” replied Norrington, who had whispered his reply in an equally quiet tone. “Not yet.”

Despite the humidity that was already in the air even before the sun broke the horizon, Bush shivered as he thought he heard a small child’s voice sing: _Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me_ …

 

* * *

 

The day had been spent with Bush keeping his crew as busy as possible to deter them from accidentally becoming a chew-toy to the irascible Commodore once he had awoken and taken his daily walk along the deck. Even Bush had tried to avoid inciting Hornblower’s wrath for the entire day, though whenever he reported to the Commodore, the answers he received were snappish, but did not contain any venom. He had briefly wondered what had put his friend in such a state of mind, but dared not to ask. Bush’s own fears of seeing apparitions again in the fog did not come to fruition.

When near eight bells of the first watch had rung, Bush finally saw Brown emerge from the cabin, having helped the Commodore to bed, he knew it was ‘safe’ to venture to his own cabin to sleep. A very brief, ironic thought cross his mind that he should now be afraid of even talking to the Commodore when weeks ago, just after they had left port, he had been attempting to comfort his friend. Strange as it was, he hoped that perhaps, after a good night’s sleep, the next morning would bring better spirits to Hornblower and to himself…

_Bewilderment filled Bush as he glanced around the darkness, only hearing the gentle laps of waves in his ears along with the potent smell of seaweed and salt water wafting in his nostrils. He was dreaming again, though this time, he could see that he was not standing like a rock amongst the crowd, but sitting calmly at the stern of the_ Nonsuch _’s longboat. A large number of Marines were crammed into the boat, all of them grim and silent as the oarsmen rowed as quickly and as quietly as possible._

_It was cold, and despite the slightly putrid smell of the tidal flood in the area, Bush thought he could smell the coming winter air – that cold, sharp scent that usually proceeded before a snowfall. What he was doing here, why, and where he was caused a momentary confusion within Bush, but like all dreams that he had before, he suddenly understood why and where he was sitting on his former command’s longboat._

_He glanced back to see a long, almost obscured line of boats following his – all carrying a large complement of Marines and seamen, ready to halt the siege army that was approaching the recently captured French port of Le Havre. He turned back and stared into the darkness, seeing only the faintest of outlines of the shores straddling the river. The tidal flow was swiftly carrying them up the river, and soon Bush could see very faint firelights, almost obscured in the dark mists of the early French winter, in the distance behind a bend in the river._

_With his eyes now readily adjusted to the darkness, Bush could see with the illuminated glow of the merrily burning campfires, and a little beyond the main encampment was two enormous barges and a cluster of smaller barges on the embankment of the river, half-unloaded with their cannonades and powder. From the size of the barges, he estimated a very high amount of tonnage of powder – they_ had _to stop the barges from going any further. Unfortunately, their mission suddenly got a little more complicated as Bush heard someone shout in French at the bend of the river._

_Damn him and his lack of linguistic skills to keep his rudimentary knowledge of French learnt from his time recovering at the Comte de Graçay’s chateau. He could not understand a word that the Frenchman was speaking, though the tone of the Frenchman indicated that it was a challenge as to why the boats were being rowed upriver. He ordered with a very hoarse whisper for the oarsmen to row faster, hoping that they could out-row the French and get to the barges as soon as they could._

_With no reply at all from the boats, Bush heard the sentry raise the alarm and moments later, the shouts of the alerted French came bearing down in the form of musket bullets. As the Marines returned fire, Bush ducked as bullets whizzed past his head, while another impacted the steersman for his boat, killing him. The dead weight of the man’s body pulled at the rudder, and Bush immediately took the tiller from the lifeless hands and swung the boat larboard, headed directly towards the barge that was further up river._

_With their stealthy approach and cover blown, he no longer had keep silent or his voice down. “Row, damn you!” barked Bush over the cries and shouts of those who had been struck by bullets. He unconsciously ducked as another barrage of musket fire blew past where they had been moments ago, hearing the thud of the iron impact the boat following him, killing some Marines, and knocking their bodies into the ice cold river._

“Nonsuch _, on me!” shouted he as the boats slid to a halt on the sandy shores of the river, right in front of the barge. In the firelight gleaming from the rather large encampment on shore, Bush could see the infantry being rallied to battle by the beating of drums. The barges had several twenty-four pounder cannons arrayed along the sides of the boat. He climbed quickly aboard the barge, bringing both his pistol and sword to bear as he fired the pistol at the nearest French seaman, killing him._

“ _Jackson! Get below and spike those guns!” he shouted to the oarsman who had climbed right up after him._

_Bush did not hear the acknowledgement as another Frenchman barreled into him as he hastily brought his sword to bear, saving him from being sliced open from shoulder to gut. He pushed with all his strength against the enemy and managed to punch an elbow into the Frenchman’s gut, sending him reeling. He wasted no time and killed the man before turning and engaging yet another Frenchman, easily slicing into the man’s guts with a lateral swipe of his sword before side stepping and stabbed another one in the stomach. Pulling out his second pistol, he shot another before he was about to be shot by the long-ranged marksman and turned to engage yet another Frenchman rushing up to try to kill him._

_The cacophony of bullets being fired from the infantry on shore was a familiar one in Bush’s ears, as he wrestled the Frenchman who had attacked him, trying to get the enemy in front of him as a meat shield. He was only partially successful, for though one or two of the bullets that would have landed right in the center of his chest had impacted the back of the Frenchman, one had struck straight into his side, causing him to stumble and fall to the deck of the barge._

_The excruciatingly painful sensation that bloomed around the right side of his torso that followed the very brief numbness of shock did not last long. Bush’s world exploded in a multitude of flames, wooden ship pieces, and hot iron before darkness overtook him, denying him the breath of life._

In the second of the eerie nightmares that plagued both the Commodore and the Captain, had Bush been watching as merely an observer as Hornblower had been viewing the dreams as a non-participant, he would have seen that the explosion of the barge that was most upstream of the river was large and great enough to have caused all the other barges to explode almost simultaneously in a fiery concussion that would be felt at Le Havre. It was only to the harsh ring of two bells of the morning watch that Bush found himself waking up from the darkness that had engulfed him, gasping for air.

His mind caught up with him a second later than his body did as Bush found himself laying in his hammock on board the _Meridian_ and not battling French forces in the ice-cold winter. As he calmed his heart down from the thumps that seemed to echo in his ear, he shivered – not from the cold, but from what he had just witnessed. Never had he ever had such a dream like that and he wondered how and why he had that eerie dream.

Bush briefly closed his eyes, but quickly opened them again, for he could see the wall of fire engulf him again, and could almost feel the phantom flash of extreme pain that accompanied being torn apart by the explosion of a few hundred tonnage of powder. He knew then, that despite waking up at the same time as the day before, he would not ever be able to fall sound asleep again; not with Death’s dream lingering so close to his eyes and mind.

To add to his disquiet, he thought he heard a distant echo of a young boy’s voice sing: _Yo ho…all together…hoist the colors on high…heave-ho…thieves and beggars…never shall we die…_

 

* * *

 

The lack of restful sleep for both the Commodore and Captain was obvious, though the mannerism that both displayed were that of opposites, and unusually so. For it was not Hornblower who snapped at the men this time, but Bush. Throughout the day, it seemed that Bush kept the hands busy with enough tasks to last a lifetime, leaving Hornblower to contemplate and occasionally issue or acknowledge a signal.

For the most part, though, the Commodore kept to the day cabin, pouring over the charts and journals, seemingly lost in some scheming. However, those who reported into his cabin to pass along words noted that there seemed to be a very melancholic and distraught look to Hornblower’s unguarded face. Even stranger was that Bush himself had not once spoken directly to Hornblower throughout the day and always seemed to be occupied whenever Hornblower emerged from the day cabin.

It was only at night; when after both the Commodore and Captain had retired – the former at six bells of the first watch and the latter at two bells of the middle watch – did a resemblance of normalcy settle on the ship, though the mists that they had encountered nigh almost two days ago had not abated. It was also then, that the extra-ordinary dreams returned to Hornblower and Bush…

_Bush opened his eyes again to find himself no longer staring at the dark ceiling of his cabin, but squinting from the harsh white light that almost blinded him. As he blinked his tears away and slowly opened his eyes again, he saw that in front of him, there was an endless landscape of white with a sky of blue and no clouds in sight. He slowly turned around – he was surrounded by the same sight over and over again, until directly behind him, he saw an enormous beached ship only a half-mile away._

_Her hull was tarred black and thousands upon thousands of barnacles were attached to her sides, indicating how low she sat when idle at sea or in port. As Bush’s eyes trailed over the lovely curves of hull and of what he could see of the ship above the waterline, he realized that this ship’s outline was quite familiar to him; even if he could not see her bowspirit clearly, due to the sun nearly blinding him, or the shapes of her deck. This ship, beached on this God-forsaken flat land of crystallized salt and surrounded by blue skies and no wind, was the_ Black Pearl _._

_What was he doing here and why could he not wake up, caused a momentary welling of panic in Bush, though he quashed it – for he was curious and briefly wondered if these dreams had any connection to what the squadron had encountered with the apparitions. As if to answer his question, a thick hemp rope was thrown down from the decks and the end of it landed in a heap at his feet. Bush glanced up, but could not see the person who had thrown the rope down._

_Seeing no other choice, and to satisfy his own curiosity, he wrapped his hands on the rope, and hauled himself up mostly with arm strength alone – occasionally using his good foot to steady himself. The climb up was tiring and took longer than if Bush had two good feet, but at long last, as Bush finally dragged himself over and onto the deck of the_ Pearl _that sorely needed holystone polishing, what greeted his eyes was a strange sight, even for such a strange dream as this._

_Milling about with either repairing sails, taking a holystone to a section of the deck, climbing ratlines, inspecting the cannons, or doing something else that ‘looked’ like busy work, were several people. A closer inspection told him that the ‘people’ were actually the same, for all had the same brown hair that was adorned with some jewelry or beads and covered by a large red bandana. Dark circles enveloped the men’s eyes, while all of them sported a goatee was tied into two thin braids. A few of the men had an assortment of rings on their fingers, though all wore dark-looking trousers and shin-high boots. White, long-sleeved and bloused shirt covered few of the men, while one, who’s bare back was turned towards Bush, had an enormous litany of tattooed words scrawled on his browned skin._

_Only one of the men on the deck wore a dark, long-sleeved jacket with frayed cuffs over the white bloused shirt, a tricorne hat, and carried at least two pistols, a cutlass, and what looked like a compass box. He was standing next to the stairs that would take him up to the quarter deck, talking as if to himself. Judging from the unkempt look and the demeanor the man held himself, Bush could only think of one word to finally describe the sum of this man._

_Pirate._

_As much as Bush avoided even talking to the criminally convicted, especially those in the stockades at port, he made it a personal promise to kill any pirate he encountered, for they had plagued the Royal Navy for too long. However, he was startled to see of all people in this bizarre dream, Hornblower, conversing with the pirate. How Bush had not noticed the Commodore in this dream before was very unnerving, though try as he might, even with the silence of the actions of the men on the main deck, he could hear nothing except for the very faint breeze blowing past his ears._

_It felt as if something had completely silence all actions around him, though he tried not to let it affect him, as soon as he reached over to touch one of these pirate apparitions, he quickly pulled his hand back, as if stung by an enormous wave of heat. Solid! The pirate was solid, and it had been Bush’s hand that passed through!_

“ _Impossible?”_

_Bush turned to see the solid form of Kennedy appear behind him, dressed in the rank of a lieutenant, hands clasped behind him, though without the normally impish and cheerful look on his face. “K-Kennedy?” asked Bush, tentatively and unsure if what he had finally heard besides the wind was an echo of his mind or true._

“ _Welcome to purgatory, Captain,” said Kennedy, pulling a hand forward and gestured to all around them. “We do not exist in this dream. We’re merely spectators to them, things that they only see out of the corner of their eyes. This is not your dream, Bush. This is Horatio’s dream.”_

_Taking a gamble and sorely glad for the company from his confusion, he said, “But then why am I here? Why are you here? Why am I not dream of something else? Why, of all places, does_ he _dream of this God-forsaken place?”_

“ _This is what awaits those at the world’s end, Bush,” answered Kennedy. “These flat lands of sea salt and endless blue sky with barely a breeze to even fill her sails – this is for every person who longs for the sea and dies at the sea – their nightmare of Davey Jones’s locker.”_

“ _But…_ he _’s not dead,” protested Bush, gesturing to Hornblower who was still talking to the pirate. “What is he to gain from talking to that pirate?”_

“ _Pirate?” asked Kennedy, a look of confusion spreading across his face._

“ _Scraggly beard, brown hair, wears a red bandana with a tricorne hat,” said Bush as he went in length to describe the pirate and all of that pirate’s incarnations that were still milling about the_ Pearl _._

“ _Ah, you are describing the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow,” said Kennedy with a very faint grin on his lips that greatly confused Bush. However, that grin faltered as Kennedy continued, saying, “I do not see Captain Sparrow anywhere; all I see is Horatio. What on earth did you drink to go with your evening meal to dream of Sparrow?”_

_Bush openly frowned at Kennedy’s attempted humor, seeing nothing funny about the situation he was in and it seemed, unable to return to the land of wakefulness. “Mr. Kennedy, my memories of you are not what it seems, so if you would please, kindly remove yourself from this dream.”_

“ _I cannot do that,” replied Kennedy, shaking his head. “You see, I am also as stuck in this as you are.”_

_It took Bush a moment to process that strange statement from Kennedy and with gradual realization, the expression on his face turned from an open frown to one of pure surprise. “That cannot be true,” he whispered, taking an unconscious step towards Kennedy. “But…but, you’re dead.”_

“ _Stanley Whittaker is dead, but I am not,” stated Kennedy, catching Bush’s eyes with his own, holding his gaze steady. Bush could read no deception in those eyes._

“ _H-how?”_

“ _I cannot show it to you here, Bush, but I will be able to show you and Horatio in less than a day.”_

“ _But why hide?” asked Bush, greatly confused at the cryptic statement. In a more confidential tone and his own hope that Kennedy would at least try to provide some explanation to him, he tried to appeal to Hornblower’s oldest friend by saying, “Do you even understand the grief you have_ caused _him? He looks exactly as if someone tore his heart out and crushed it.”_

“ _It is the same reason as to why you will not tell him about this observation of a dream, Bush,” said Kennedy, unusually solemn. “He’ll not believe you, just as a part of you will not believe the reasons I could give you. You may not believe it yourself, but it is not only I that Horatio mourns, even in a dream, it is also you. If you remember correctly, both of us_ died _in the past two days in dreams. This is Horatio’s dream and he is trying to reconcile and find solace and direction.”_

“ _How is to find that, by talking to this Jack Sparrow?”_

“ _That’s_ Captain _Jack Sparrow,” said Kennedy, with a slight emphasis on the rank of the pirate._

_Bush stayed silent, resisting the urge to argue with Kennedy about a pirate and rank afforded to a criminal who should not even be holding such a lofty rank. “He is on the_ Black Pearl _, Kennedy. How does he hope to find solace in such a vile place?”_

_There seemed to be a dawning of realization on the other man’s face as Kennedy quickly extended a hand out towards Bush and said, “Ah, your version of Horatio’s dream is imposed on the fear of never being able to sail the sea again. Take my hand and I shall show you what Horatio is trying to find in his solace.”_

_When Bush had first met Kennedy, he had thought of him as impulsive, reckless, and undisciplined, though the events that had bound the two of them and Hornblower on board the_ Renown _had slowly changed his opinion of the man. By the end, when Hornblower had volunteered to blow up the Spanish fort, he had come to trust Kennedy and the beginnings of their friendship had been sealed by disobeying orders and going to the fort to help Hornblower. Then the verdict and confession by Kennedy had come as to who had pushed Captain Sawyer down into the hold – along with the nearly thirteen years of not hearing anything about Kennedy until now._

_The reappearance of Kennedy on that island just mere months ago was a surprise to him and he had seen Hornblower inexplicably happier than ever before – almost just as happy as he had been when Hornblower had been wed to the former Lady Wellesley. It if were not Hornblower’s wife who could make him smile, it was Kennedy when at sea, for that was what Bush remembered when Hornblower had been happiest at sea. He had seen Kennedy’s reappearance both terrify and bring joy to the Commodore, though he had briefly wondered why Hornblower had been initially terrified. Bush had not put much thought into that, though upon looking back, and given the time in this unnatural landscape before him, he could only assume that Kennedy’s initial reappearance had reminded Hornblower of some long ago memory. Bush, however, knew that the possible reminder was not of the events that had happened on the_ Renown _, and were of when it was just Hornblower and Kennedy serving together, for the look in Hornblower’s eyes had a far different cast._

_He did not know if that memory was good or bad, for it was not his place to inquire of his friend’s past actions that had no merit in the present. He also knew that it would greatly offend and even cause their camaraderie to possibly break if he suggested such a thing to Hornblower, and he had the tact and good grace not to push their friendship in that direction. He valued and appreciated their close companionship too much. Bush knew and understood that if there were two people who helped Hornblower balance his life at sea, it was he and Kennedy, though the spot that Kennedy had occupied had been vacant for the longest of time – to the point in which it had almost become a wound that had healed over._

_To Bush, Kennedy’s reappearance seemed to reopen that ‘wound’ and the time-matured personality of Kennedy seemed to clash with the memory of his open and friendly nature. He knew that secrets should not be kept between friends, and the secrets that Kennedy seemed to apparently hide, including the apparent faking of his death by the King’s guards, unsettled him. Bush did not know whether to fully trust the man standing in front of him or not – dream not withstanding._

_That enlightening look on Kennedy’s face did not help with Bush’s confidence or trust in the man at all – for he was wary and wondered greatly what Kennedy was hiding. How did Kennedy know of such things, how did he even know who was the pirate that he, Bush, had been describing earlier. There were many unanswered questions in his mind, and he had half of a mind to stop right now and demand those answers. He knew however, there were other pressing needs that had to be attended to, one of which was this dream that had him trapped, witnessing the strangest and most fantastical things that he thought he would never see. Another was the way Hornblower had been acting as of late._

_The distress that ate away at his worry over Hornblower conquered his current mistrust of Kennedy, and he took a leap of faith, curious and wanting to ensure that Hornblower was in the best of mental health. His concern for his friend was greater than anything else._

_When Bush blinked, gone was the bright expanse of the never-ending salt flats and blue skies, along with the dark deck of the_ Pearl _; only to be replaced by a warm, lovely-looking sitting room. The room was full of books, charts, maps, and other naval paraphernalia spread out and hung across the walls. There was a merrily burning fire in the hearth, and Bush could almost feel the warmth emanating from the place. He spotted the clearly aged Hornblower, sitting on a rocking chair near the hearth, reading a book._

“ _Grandpa Horatio, sir?” a young voice called from behind the two of them._

“ _Come in, come in,” said Hornblower in a slightly hoarse but very genial tone._

_Two children, not much older than ten or eleven years scrambled into the sitting room, completely running through the ghostly figures of Kennedy and Bush, before settling themselves on the ground, near the elderly Hornblower, faces upturned and eager._

“ _Now what can I do for you young rascals?”_

_Bush could not hide his smile as he saw the time-tempered Hornblower speak in such a casual and relaxed fashion to the children. He swore he could almost hear a slight doting tone in Hornblower’s voice, far from the quiet intensity that usually graced his friend’s voice. It was very surprising and to a degree, very refreshing to see and hear this pleasant change._

“ _We want to hear a story!” one of the young boys cried._

“ _That one where you and the others blew up that Spanish fort in the Caribbean!” the other boy cried._

_Bush saw the smile and happiness on Hornblower’s face falter for a moment before looking up towards the entrance to the sitting room, saying, “I think they are old enough, Richard, to hear the full tale. Would not you agree?”_

_Bush turned slightly to see the tall figure of a man who looked almost the splitting image of Hornblower standing near the entrance, a faint smile on his face. Bush himself had never seen Hornblower’s son before and was startled at how similar the mannerisms the man had to his father, even in a dream, as Richard replied, saying, “I agree. It is time William and Archibald learned of their namesakes. They have expressed a wish to join the Navy and I may let them soon. Will you be all right, father? Do you wish me to stay?”_

“ _Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower in a non-commital grunt. “Stay if you want, Richard. You know the stories as well as I do.” Hornblower then returned his attention to his young charges and began to tell the two boys of what Bush could only perceive as the history of what was called the Napoleonic War._

_It was not the stories that told Bush just how distraught Hornblower was, even in this dream, but the fact that Hornblower was dreaming of grandsons that bore names after both he and Kennedy. That touched Bush more than words could express his feelings, though he was quite worried that the past two days had taken an incredible mental toll on his friend. He knew then that he would need to reassure Hornblower that all was right with the world, no matter the sharp words that his friend might throw back for him, Bush, being such a fussbudget._

“ _How do I wake up, Kennedy?” asked Bush as he glanced around, seeing if there was a way out of this bizarre, if not strangely cathartic, dream._

“ _The mists have us, Bush,” replied Kennedy in an unusually solemn tone. “Just as they did when we were being pursued by those three French frigates for these waters are said to be cursed.”_

“ _Cursed?”_

“ _Cursed by the Isla de Muerta, where you are no doubt, sailing to.”_

_Bush frowned, wondering how Kennedy knew of such information when he himself was not even sure that this dream-figure of Kennedy was actually real or not, or just a manifestation of his own stark and seldom exercised imagination. “How do you know of that?”_

_Kennedy grinned and cryptically said, “When the time comes, I hope you will be there to see. All I can tell you now is that to not retrieve the gold of Cortez for the King. It is cursed and the entire English Navy will be damned if it taken.”_

Bush awakened with a slight start to the sound of two bells of the morning watch again, though this time, it was the last words that Kennedy spoke that lingered in his ears. Despite yet another humid pre-dawn, he could not help but feel a chill crawl over his body as he thought he heard a ghostly old man’s voice croak: _Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest…yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum…drink and the devil had done for the rest…yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum…but one man of her crew alive…what put to sea was seventy-five…_

 

~*~*~*~

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

Night had long fallen by the time land was sighted; and it was not exactly the kind of land that any sailor would be glad to see, for the cold gleam of the moonlight revealed it to be a multitude of sharp, jutting, darkly sinister cliff faces that had been sighted. It was then that Bush, standing on the poop, with his gaze trying to pierce through the fog, was disturbed by his first lieutenant.

“Captain Bush, may I speak in confidence with you?” asked Turner.

“Certainly, Mr. Turner,” replied Bush, puzzled as to why his normally respectful and calm first lieutenant sounded and looked quite agitated. Looking beyond the first lieutenant, he could see the dimly lit faces of both Groves and Norrington standing a bit ways away. However, it looked as if the two of them clearly had their attention on him too, as if they wanted to be a part of the conversation but did not want to rudely intrude. “Mr. Groves, Mr. Norrington, do either of you not have anything better to do than to gawk?”

“No, sir!” replied Groves, who glanced at Norrington and ushered the midshipman down to the main deck before following him. However, Bush did not miss the glance that Groves gave to Turner and the slight nod that Turner returned. Bush was not suspicious about any outright mutiny attempt by his first lieutenant – no intelligently mutinous person would even betray his intentions that blatantly, but that small exchange between his lieutenants made him guarded. He knew that he would have to attempt to draw out the significance of that silent exchange with his next words.

“Mr. Groves and Mr. Norrington appointed you as their representative?” asked Bush, searching the face of his first lieutenant for any signs that would betray even a whisper of mutiny. Under the cover of darkness and only faintly illuminated, the search proved fruitless, though the answer that Bush received from his first lieutenant quashed the doubts in his mind.

“Sir, Mr. Groves, Mr. Norrington, and I had adhered to your orders regarding of what we spoke of when we first encountered the specters months ago. We spoke no more of it, but we now cannot sit silent on this matter, especially since it seems that we have reached our destination,” said Turner in a respectful tone.

“Out with it Mr. Turner” said Bush, “I do not have the patience for guessing games right now.”

“I am asking you, sir, to please reconsider this expedition,” stated Turner, setting his jaw straight, eyes betraying no fear or worry, only calm and determination. “I recognize this place to be the Isla de Muerta, and it is a cursed place. My grandfather and grandmother have told me stories of it when I was younger. It was supposed to have been claimed by the sea long ago so that the cursed gold stored in its bowels could never be claimed ever again. For the island to resurface again will bring us no good, sir.”

Had the words been spoken out of any other man’s mouth, Bush would have given the man a few choice words for such a preposterous story and reasoning. However, ever since that day where he had interviewed Turner, Groves, and Norrington, his unsettled feeling about the mission they had been tasked with – starting with transporting Kennedy back to England with all haste and the retrieval of a mysterious thing at coordinates given to them by the Admiralty – had grown stronger and stronger. It did not help that the nightmares that had plagued his mind for the past three nights had increased his apprehension. There was still, however, the matter at hand to address.

“Mr. Turner, pray do tell why you are espousing such a declaration?” asked he, keeping the tone of his voice as neutral as possible so as to not betray to his first lieutenant that he was indeed, listening to his words with more intent than a captain in a similar situation would normally listen to.

“I know of only one reason as to why someone would travel to the Isla de Muerta, sir. It is to retrieve the cursed gold of Cortez. I understand that what I say might be outlandish and implausible, but I say it with truth as my grandfather and grandmother as witness. Any one person who takes the gold from the chest is doomed to live a life of the undead, sir. They cannot be killed, yet they cannot touch, eat, or feel anything of life’s gifts. Please sir, reconsider this expedition!” explained Turner with the utmost stirring in his voice.

Despite his wish to remain as stolid as possible as a captain of a ship with officers under him seemingly alarmed, Bush found himself in recourse and harkened back to the dream that he had before he had woken up. Kennedy had stated almost the same reasoning as to why the squadron and Hornblower should not obey the King’s orders, though Bush had not been given an explanation to the reason, until now. Bush now found himself torn between duty and the very threat that two people he had trusted – well, he at least trusted his first lieutenant more than Kennedy – had told him almost the same words: what they had been apparently tasked to retrieve from the coordinates given to them from the Admiralty was cursed objects.

Bush prided himself for being a practical man, though he like almost all other seamen, were prone to beliefs in superstitions. It was on this paranoia that he now found himself briefly wondering again if these past few months of strange events had anything to do with their mission. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came for he still had to impose order and discipline on his crew, especially on the three whom he had reprimanded and given punishments a few months ago for their cause in terrifying the crew with their words.

“Mr. Turner, I will take your concern under advisement,” stated Bush in the most carefully neutral tone he could possibly voice. “However, I would like to remind you that if there are any whispers among the crew of anything related to this, that I will know who to blame for the incident. You are to ensure that Mr. Groves and Mr. Norrington also adhere to this, while you are to join the Commodore and me as a part of the shore party.”

He saw Turner visibly swallow before touching the tip of his hat with his hand and replying with an, “Aye aye, sir. I shall make preparations.”

Bush knew his first lieutenant was not a coward, but a cautious man, and as Turner left to prepare the shore party, Bush heard the day cabin door open and close as the familiar gait of Hornblower appeared on deck. He glanced beyond the railing to see Hornblower emerge into the moonlit deck, glancing around before placing his hat on his head. As if sensing eyes on him, Bush saw Hornblower glance up, though Hornblower’s expression was completely closed and impassive. Not a hint of what had happened in the past three nights could be read on the Commodore’s face.

The speed in which Hornblower made his way up to the poop gave Bush little time to contemplate the recent conversation with his first lieutenant, and whether or not he should approach the Commodore with his concern. He was saved, however, from an initial explanation when Hornblower said, “With the mists having not abated, this will make our journey closer to land more treacherous.”

“Aye, sir. I have a leadsman standing ready,” said Bush.

“Mr. Davenport,” called Hornblower as he turned a bit and addressed the young midshipman at the foot of the mizzenmast. “Signal squadron three-one-four.”

“Aye aye, sir. Three-one-four,” confirmed Davenport as he ran up the appropriate signal lamps.

As soon as the acknowledgement for the pre-determined signal had been received from the other ships, Hornblower ordered the remaining two ships that were to accompany the _Meridian_ forward. Bush had missed his moment to relay his concern to the Commodore, for now they had to concentrate at the task on hand. He would have to address his concern later and could only hope that what both the dream-Kennedy and Turner had stated was not true.

Despite the humid air, the persistent fog stayed with the squadron as the _Meridian_ , _Ember of Winter_ , and _Amaranthe_ drew closer to the largest of the islands of black cliffs, creating a hazardous navigational route for them. Each ship had a leadsman on the line, calling out the depths at an interval of every minute, while the rest of the crews waited with baited breath, hoping that they would not be moored by unseen underwater rocks. Left behind, _Integrity_ and _Groton_ began their outer patrols, weather eyes on the dark horizons and with almost all lamps doused.

At about five hundred yards from what could be described as the largest of the black cliff islands, Hornblower ordered the three ships to stop and had the shore party from the _Meridian_ set off into two boats. Cautiously and with a touch of wariness and fear, the oarsmen rowed through the eerily still waters, with each stroke in the glacially smooth water taking them closer to the large island. With eyes keener and younger than either Hornblower or Bush, First Lieutenant Turner had spotted through the thick misty soup of a fog, a small beach in the distance on the large foreboding island.

As Hornblower directed the oarsmen on the boats in and landed on the dark, damp, sandy beach with barely a sound, the shore parties scrambled out, guns ready and looking warily around them. Among those sloshing through the strangely ice-cold water towards dry land, Bush was staring warily around, hoping that the moonlight would reveal anyone or anything that could be waiting in ambush for them in this creepy place. Despite the humidity, he had not been able to shake the chill from his body since he had both woken up from the strange dream and his brief discussion with his first lieutenant.

Quickly checking that the powder for his pistols were not dampened by the slightly messy splash through the water and onto the dark sands, he set one at half cock before holstering it while the other, he held in his left hand, keeping his right hand free to draw the other pistol at a moment’s notice or his sword. This entire area in which the Admiralty via the King’s orders had sent them to, was causing all the men to be jumpy, and he knew that he had to keep his calm and wits about him to not set his men off more. Bush could see Hornblower doing a very masterful job at keeping his own wits about him, though more than once, he saw the Commodore glance up at the cliffs with a keen look to his eyes.

“Mr. Turner, take six men with you and see if you can find a second entrance to the interior of this cave,” ordered Hornblower. “The rest are to follow me.”

“Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged Turner who took his small complement of Marines and sailors and headed off on the small, barely noticeable path that led to the left area of the cliff.

Hornblower set off up the beach and towards what looked like to be the entrance to the cavern that was slightly obscured in the mists, and Bush stayed close. With only the moonlight shining down and giving them light in the area, Bush could not help but feel that _something_ unpleasant would be showing up at any moment. He tightened his grip on the pistol and could only hope that nothing foul would befall them.

 

* * *

 

“ _Integrity_ and _Groton_ report an all-clear so far, sir,” reported Midshipman Norrington when signal lights relayed from _Amaranthe_ had been spotted and interpreted.

“Good,” said Second Lieutenant Groves, acknowledging the short report with a curt nod of his head, as he strove to keep the unease he felt from showing too much.

As the lieutenant glanced up at the dark night skies, with the moonlight slightly obscured by the infernal mists that laid heavy around the area, it was Norrington who said, mostly in a whisper, to Groves, “A fine night to be taking a stroll underwater, is it not, sir?”

Anyone who glanced at the lieutenant at that moment would have seen the irritation and flustered look that briefly appeared on his face before he tried a half-hearted attempt to cover it with a mask of aloofness. One might not have wondered why the lieutenant had looked aggravated at what the midshipman standing next to him had said, had they not known of the reason. But it was not aggravation that had caused Groves to glare at Norrington – it was both embarrassment and memories of the stories of old that had been told to him that had caused it.

“Watch your tongue, Mr. Norrington,” hissed Groves, well aware of the reversal of roles that he and the midshipman had, with regards to their ancestors, even though their ranks now had been lower than their ancestors’ ranks. “Mr. Turner warned us of what the Captain had said.” In a more confidential tone, he said, “This is not the _Dauntless_. There will also be no invasion or attempted commandeering of the _Meridian_ by pirates on my watch – I will not repeat the mistakes of both my father and your grand uncle.”

With a mild look about him, Norrington only replied with an, “Aye aye, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Never had Kennedy felt so blinded yet awed at the same time as he walked across the majestic land under the murky waters of the Caribbean Sea. Slung on his right shoulder, he carried a tar-sealed barrel of black powder, hoping that the rough waterproofing he gave to the barrel would hold until he could reach his destination. The moonlight from above did penetrate far enough to give him some visibility to find his way through the sea. He remembered his first steps through a similar of moonlight streaming through cracks in a French frigate’s brig long ago that had almost caused him to faint with shock.

Bones, rotting sinew, and scraps of clothing hung onto him when he had stepped through a patch of moonlight, transforming his once-robust-looking body into no more that of a desiccated and decaying corpse. The sight of what his body had become in the moonlight told him that this was the true nature of the curse of Cortez’s gold. It had been such a frightening sight that he had taken great pains not to ever appear out at night anywhere whenever there was even a sliver of a moon.

Now though, he trudged and hurried his way through the murky waters, needing to reach his destination before the others could. It had not been easy for Kennedy to escape into the water as soon as he had heard the call for land and had felt the _Integrity_ change course. His splash, along with the barrel of black powder’s splash into the water had been heard by the crew of the _Integrity_ , and he had barely enough time to duck underwater with the barrel in hand before the crew could look overboard. His only saving grace at not being discovered was due to the murky water and the nighttime atmosphere.

Under the waters of the Caribbean were an entirely different landscape; so serene and calm with schools of fish and other aquatic creatures swimming about. However, despite his awe, Kennedy had steeled himself on his task – he needed to blow up the chest containing the cursed gold or at least sink it to the unreachable depths of the sea before any of Hornblower’s people could retrieve it. As Kennedy began to climb the sandy incline towards the surface of the caverns, he could only hope that he was not too late.

He should have, however, stayed behind for another minute in the depths of the sea, for in the far distance, he would have seen a greater threat start to descend upon the squadron. Had Kennedy stayed and not hurried to the cavern of Cortez’s gold, he would have seen the skeletal undead crews of the three French frigates that had initially pursued the squadron return, not by sea, but by underwater.

 

* * *

 

Bush halted just as Hornblower did at the sight of the cavernous expanse before them yielded a glittering chamber of riches illuminated by torches. Jewels of every color, gold, and silver glittered in the moonlight streaming down from the hollows of the cave, but they were marred by the presence of barrels of black powder in the chamber. Standing behind or near the clusters of black powders were several people, all of them with expectant gazes on their faces.

“What the devil is this?” whispered Bush in the silence, bringing his pistol up, as did the others with their rifles, glancing all around him. Those standing before them were dressed in raggedy clothing, and up on a slightly raised area of cave where a large, open chest filled with gold coins sat, stood two people, one of which Bush faintly recognized, the other he did not know.

“We claim this place and all that is in it for His Majesty of England King George,” stated Hornblower in an authoritative tone. “Leave now and we will let you live.”

The person standing directly behind the chest of gold gave a fairly irritating sigh and said, “The gold belongs to no one, lad. It is cursed and we will sink it to prevent any more who sail the sea from suffering a fate worse than death. If you think you and your men’s aims are good, by all means, shoot.”

“Captain, you do know that if they shoot, we’ll be blown into smithereens along with them,” said the person next to the man who had just spoken.

A slight furrow appeared on Bush’s bridge of his nose as he focused on the man wearing a white shirt with a dark colored vest, dark trousers and a red bandana covering half of his brown-haired head. A few rings adorned the man’s fingers while dark circles eclipsed the man’s eyes and with stark realization, he found that he _knew_ who the man next to the addressed ‘captain’ was. His mind, however, rebelled against the thought, for it could not be true, yet before him; standing behind the large chest of gold was the person he remembered the dream-Kennedy stated as Jack Sparrow.

“Who are you and what are you doing here, _pirate_?” questioned Hornblower, keeping his pistol level and steady in the direction of the two who were behind the gold and the barrels of black powder.

Bush saw red bandana man lean over to the ‘captain’ and say, “Told you he’d call you a pirate.”

The addressed ‘captain’ merely gave the red bandana man a glare before stating, “Bill Turner, captain of the _Dutchman_ , at your service. We’re here to keep the curse from taking hold again.”

“ _Dutchman_?” questioned Hornblower. “The _Flying Dutchman_?”

Bush could not believe his ears or his eyes, for even though the legends of the _Dutchman_ were always whispered in the hushed, dark places of taverns, to actually see real people claim to be the crew and captain of the fabled ship was almost mind-numbingly impossible. He had thought it merely an imagination of his when he and the others had seen the _Dutchman_ those months ago, but to hear of this…

“Curse? What curse is there?” asked Hornblower, lowering his pistol a fraction.

“Curse of this gold here,” answered the red bandana pirate, gesturing to the gold in the large chest, “to whomever takes a piece out, turning them into the living dead, causing said person to suffer, pillage, and generally go mad until the gold is put back here with the blood of the taker on it. The French took it to make themselves immortal against their enemy and now, with Bootstrap being the bloody contradictory good pirate he is, we got almost all of them back. Savvy?”

From the way Hornblower’s closed expression and stance, Bush could see that the Commodore did not believe a word that the pirate had said. Had Bush not had the strange dream earlier, he would not have believed it himself either, especially at the word of a pirate. However, both his first lieutenant and the dream-Kennedy had stated that the gold was curse, and now thrice a person had stated the nature of Cortez’s glittering gold.

Hornblower’s patience was also not to be trifled with as he ordered, “Marines, take aim!” The cacophony of rifles being adjusted and swung towards the two on the tallest outcropping was heard, just as the scrape of cutlasses and swords were drawn from the remaining pirates in the cavern.

“Gents, gents!” called out pirate wearing the red bandana, stepping out from behind the gold with a genial air about him. “Can’t we resolve this like the wonderfully pleasant and peaceable gentlemen we all are?”

“Pleasant and peaceable never went hand in hand with piracy!” shouted a voice from the far side of the cavern.

Bush could feel the brief relief well up inside of him as he and all others in the cavern glanced over at the direction where the voice had shouted, seeing First Lieutenant Turner and the six men that had gone with him, emerge into the cavern. With a pistol and sword in hand, Turner looked quite intimidating, while his men forced a few of the pirates standing near the barrels to move away.

“Well, that’s a sight I thought I’d never see,” muttered the red bandana pirate. In a louder voice, the Bush saw the pirate saunter down from the hill of treasure, almost completely oblivious to the amount of rifles following him. Bush realized then, that even if Hornblower had called for the Marines to take aim, any misfire or accidental hit of a black powder barrel would cause the entire place to explode. The red bandana pirate was using the barrels as a very clever device to hide behind while walking down.

“William…mate, those look terrible on you,” the red bandana pirate continued, walking towards the glowering Turner, who held his hand with the pistol steady against the incoming pirate.

Bush’s premature thought at the fact that his first lieutenant knew of the pirate was disproved when he heard the conviction of bewilderment and truth in Turner’s voice, saying, “Who the devil are you?”

The pirate stopped with a clearly perplexed expression crossing his face as he said, “You don’t remember me?”

“I make a point of avoiding familiarity with pirates,” stated Turner.

The pirate affected a hurt expression that quickly changed to a curious one as he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Liam Turner.”

“That would be short for William, I imagine. Good strong name, no doubt named for your father, eh?”

As Turner agreed, Bush heard Hornblower mutter, “Ha-h’m.”

However, before anyone else could say a word or move, a head and a barrel surfaced from one of the many pools of water in the cavern. As all eyes turned to this new disturbance, Bush heard Hornblower draw in a quick breath in shock as the firelight revealed who had exactly surfaced. Even Bush felt his eyes widen as he saw the impossible happen; Kennedy pulling himself up to the rocky surface of the cavern.

What the man had stated in his dream was true, and yet Bush could not believe his eyes at the sight, even as Kennedy glanced around with a slight bewilderment in his eyes before saying, “I suppose I am late to the party?”

“Archie?” whispered Hornblower. “That is impossible.”

“Improbable, more like it,” interjected the red bandana pirate, grinning.

“I should say the same,” said Kennedy in a clear voice, though his words were not directed at the stunned Hornblower, but rather at the pirate standing close to Turner. “Captain Jack Sparrow. Fancy seeing you still improbably alive.”

The pirate merely grinned before turning towards his captain, still standing at the top, saying, “At least someone remembers me. Can I now have the _Pearl_ back?”

“Not yet, Sparrow,” said the _Dutchman_ ’s captain. To Kennedy, the captain said, “The last of the coins, if you would please.”

In response to the oddly eloquently phrased request, Kennedy set the tarred barrel down near the others already at the base of the mound and retrieved a small gold coin from the depths of his clothes. Holding it into the torch and indirect moonlight, Kennedy briefly rolled it across his fingers before saying, “This thing saved me twice from dying you know. Such a shame to get rid of it, but all the same, I am glad to be rid of it.”

“Never a good thing is it, eh matey? A half-life of immortality when you cannot even feel _human_?” asked the red bandana pirate that had been identified as Jack Sparrow.

“And what of you, Sparrow?” countered Kennedy as he walked up the mound, almost as if completely oblivious that several English seamen and Marines had their pistols and rifles trained on the pirates, who in turn, had their weaponry turned on them. “How many years before the _Dutchman_ ’s mast before you can go free?”

“I don’t even know you, and you know me, yet Liam there, doesn’t know me, yet looks uncannily like his father,” said Sparrow, evading the question. “Why is there always no rum when things like this happen?”

There was no answer to what Bush could assume as a strangely rhetorical question when suddenly, out of the darkness in the cavern and through the entrances and water, out charged several Frenchmen. Announcing their arrival was several close-ranged bangs of pistols and flashing swords. Bush instinctively ducked as several bullets brushed past him and embedded into the cavern wall as he saw the Frenchmen swarm the area, changing forms in between moonlight and torchlight. The initial surprise of the changing forms caught not only him off guard, but other Englishmen as well, as they saw for a brief second, the change from human form to a shriveled, putrefying form. They were, however, spurred into action by the reaction that the _Dutchman_ ’s crew had – which was by charging and drawing their swords to meet the oncoming rush.

Bush only saw a glimpse of Kennedy slicing his hand with the gold coin in it before the incoming swipe of a sword from an undead Frenchman drew his attention away as he raised his own sword to block the strike. Kicking the Frenchman back, he saw the brief transformation from human form to a skeletal decaying form as the enemy stumbled back over a patch of moonlight and back into the cover of the cavern. However, as soon as the Frenchman charged back, his form did not change from human to skeletal and remained the same.

Surprise briefly overtook Bush – the curse had been lifted – but the years of instinct honed by battle overrode his surprise as he raised his pistol and shot the Frenchman almost point blank. Even before the enemy fell to the ground, Bush was already engaging another with a swipe of his bloodied sword, felling another French enemy.

“ _Meridian_! To the boats!” shouted Hornblower, gesturing with a wave of his sword to the crew of the _Meridian_ , who were trying to fight their way to the cavern’s entrance.

Bush caught a glimpse of Hornblower trying to aim one of his pistols at the barrels near the top where Cortez’s gold was stashed, but a Frenchman stumbling back from one of the Marine’s shots, knocking into Hornblower. Bush immediately took the second pistol he had out and aimed for one of the barrels, hoping that his shot would be true. He spied his first lieutenant engaged against several Frenchmen near the top who were trying to get to the gold. If he fired now, he would kill Turner.

“Turner!” shouted Bush, trying to make his voice be heard over the din of battle, only to be drowned out by the sudden explosion of several black powder barrels that sent people, objects, and large chunks of rocks flying.

Bush felt himself being thrown back and into the ground, skidding on blood and water as secondary explosions from the other barrels in the place rumbled through the ground and started to collapse to the cave. Heaving a dead Frenchman, who had become impaled on his sword by the force of the explosions, off of him, Bush scrambled up, grabbed the nearest seaman by the scruff of his neck and hauled the man up. He blearily saw Hornblower recover with stumbles after being thrown against a cavern wall, making his way down through the spiral of the cave, back towards the boats.

With the cavern violently shaking, sending large chunks of rock down, Bush futiely glanced back for a moment, seeing the chaos descend through the entire cavern as both French, pirate, and English forces were trying to get to the exits before the entire place collapsed. Through the dust, rocks, and dirt, he saw Kennedy burst through, with one hand holding a cutlass and a smoking pistol in the other. Without a doubt in his mind, Bush knew that Kennedy must have fired on the barrels – Kennedy’s conviction to do what he had set out to do was just that.

Bush could see no others as he ducked and sent Kennedy through the narrow cavern corridor with a hand to the man’s back. He could save no other unless he himself wanted to die along with those unfortunate enough to not escape. Following Kennedy closely behind, he weaved around falling rocks, splashing through water that seemed to be rising inch by inch with each step. The realization that the island was sinking struck him, and with a bellow that he hoped that Kennedy would hear, he shouted, “Go!”

It was already hard enough for him to get purchase on the already damp ground with his wooden leg, and now with the water rising, it would be even harder, for even though Bush still had not learned to swim in his entire career so far, the wooden leg was _not_ designed to be in water. The contraption strapped securely to his leg was only designed to withstand a certain moderate amount of water from say a storm and waves surging onto the deck, but not a full blown flooding or rising sea water. The wooden leg and its attachments would fall off well before Bush could even think about wading in knee-high water.

Fortunately, their trip to the boats was short, for the sinking of the island meant that the boats that had been beached on the small area where they had landed were already floating in water. Hornblower was already in one, hastily directing the men to either of the boats, evening the weight of each out. In the midst of the chaos, it seemed that even with an island rapidly sinking, Hornblower was still calm and in control.

“Captain Bush, I need you to command the other boat!” called out Hornblower.

“Aye, sir!” acknowledged Bush, before the distant sounds of gun fire and the tolling of a bell in alert and warning caused him to squint and look in the distance where the hulking shadow of the _Meridian_ sat, moored and covered in mists. He could barely see the distant flashes, but knew that it was gunfire he was witnessing. Had the French forces bypassed the patrolling ships? Had both the _Integrity_ and _Groton_ fallen?

It was evident that the others had heard the same sounds as Bush did, for as soon as Bush climbed into his boat and Kennedy into Hornblower’s boat, did both Commodore and Captain shout at almost the same time, “Row!”

“Captain Bush, come in from the stern!” shouted Hornblower. “I will take the bow!”

“Aye, sir!” shouted Bush in response, and he ordered the men rowing to lay more oar on the starboard and let up on the port, steering the boat towards the stern of the _Meridian_. Fortunately, as both boats got closer to their destination, no cannon fire was shot from the _Meridian_ , which told Bush that those trying to commandeer his ship had not overwhelmed his crew yet. Shouts and screams in both English and French could be heard, which meant that it was not pirates that had tried to take over, but French forces – most likely part of those who had entered the cave, hoping that their immortality could win the day. He could, however, see and hear other commotions on both the _Winter_ and _Amaranthe_ , as they too had been besieged by the Frenchmen.

“Sir! The island! Its sinking fast!” cried one of the few fortunate surviving Marines in his boat.

Bush risked a glance back, only to see the once forebodingly tall island being engulfed in water that was rushing towards the top. Suction from a sinking mass that size was not a problem though, for both Hornblower and Bush’s boats were far enough away from the greater effects. “Good riddance,” he muttered under his breath as he turned back – they were only a hundred feet away from the _Meridian_ now.

As soon as they could grab onto the ropes hanging off the _Meridian_ , Bush and his company in the boat swung and heaved themselves up to the deck, just as Hornblower and his company reached the bow. “ _Meridian_ , on me!” cried Bush, rallying his crew and signaling to the French forces fighting on the main deck that reinforcements for the English side had arrived.

He charged into the fray on the deck below, bringing his sword down in a large arc, slicing into a Frenchman, who had been grappling with Second Lieutenant Groves. With the Frenchman down and Groves freed of the fight, Bush turned and engaged another of the enemy. With the arrival and rallying cry of Hornblower at the bow, the entire crew of the _Meridian_ had the French forces boxed in within minutes, and the complete surrender of their leader not a moment later.

With Hornblower accepting the sword of the French forces’ leader, Bush ordered one of the Marine marksmen to take his and his best marksmen to the nest and shoot the other French forces on both the _Amaranthe_ and _Winter_. After that order had been given, and with Hornblower’s nod of assent, Bush ordered the crew to make sail and head towards the _Amaranthe_ first to ensure that she was not overtaken. Their second destination would be the _Winter_. Even though the captain of the _Winter_ , First Lieutenant rhys-Diar was a junior officer, both Hornblower and Bush knew that the man and his crew had extensive front-line experience in dealing with attempted overtaking of their ship, having played bait for quite a number of years to French forces. The _Amaranthe_ had no experience in dealing with such a surprise.

When they had secured all three ships, Hornblower ordered a signal to be sent to both the _Integrity_ and _Groton_ , briefly informing them of the results. It was then, that Bush finally could rest for one moment in assessing the damage done to both his ship and crew; sending the injured down below, while having those who could, clear away the bodies and make the ship ready again. It was also then that his second lieutenant reported to him.

“Begging your pardon sir, but I take full responsibility for what happened with the French attempting to over take the ship,” said Groves without a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“Explain yourself, Lieutenant,” stated Bush.

“They caught us almost unawares, and when we tried to fight and kill them, they kept coming, sir,” said Groves. “It was just like the stories that my father had told me about what had happened during my grandfather’s time of service here in the Caribbean. Then suddenly, they died, as if the curse in the Isla de Muerta had been lifted from them.”

Bush knew that it was not his second lieutenant’s fault for anything, for the undead had given all of them a scare, but he knew that a full explanation would have to be given at a later date. He had more pressing issues to deal with, and so he said, “Rest assure, Lieutenant, you did an admiral job defending the ship.”

“Thank ye, sir,” said Groves after a moment. “If I may ask, where is Lieutenant Turner?”

“He did not make it,” stated Bush, flatly, keeping the loss he felt of his capable first lieutenant from coloring his words. However, he refrained from saying anymore as he caught Kennedy’s words to Hornblower as the two approached.

“They could not have traveled the entire sea floor to get here!”

“That is true, but neither the _Integrity_ or _Groton_ have mentioned any sightings of any French ship,” argued Hornblower.

“There are at least one-hundred-and-thirty men on each frigate,” said Kennedy. “Judging from how many attacked us at Isla de Muerta, how many attacked and were killed on both the _Meridian_ , _Amaranthe_ , and _Winter_ , there is at least a skeleton crew commanding each frigate.”

“Strange that you should use that word ‘skeleton’,” commented Hornblower, turning and pinning Kennedy with a glare.

Midshipman Norrington, however, interrupted the conversation, saying, “Pardon the intrusion, sirs, but _Integrity_ has sighted a ship in similar profile as the ones that had pursued us to England.”

“How many?” asked Hornblower.

“Just one so far, sir,” answered Norrington.

With only the moonlight and some lanterns for illumination, the gleam that suddenly sprang into Hornblower’s eyes was uncanny but full of fire. “Mr. Norrington, signal to _Amaranthe_ and _Winter_ to follow and prepare for battle. Then signal to _Integrity_ and _Groton_ to intercept the French ship, but do not sink her.”

“Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged Norrington.

“Mr. Whittaker,” said Hornblower, “it looks as if we will be testing your hypothesis.” To Bush, Hornblower said, “Captain Bush, if you would please.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Bush, who in turn, gave the order to battlefield-promoted First Lieutenant Groves to give to the crew to ‘beat to quarters’.

 

~*~*~*~

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

“Liam? Liam! Can you hear me, Liam?”

Several pairs of strong hands, ordered by their captain, lifted the barely conscious form of the young man from the ground. Under the watchful eye of the captain of the _Dutchman_ , they moved the young man from where he had been violently thrown back from the explosive black powder and into the hard, craggy stone walls of the place, to the water-welling ground. Though the entire island was rapidly sinking, those left behind had no worries, for they could survive underwater as crewmen of the ship who led the dead to their final resting place.

“He’s not going to make it, Bill, matey,” muttered Sparrow, standing above the heavily wounded and prone form of Royal Naval Lieutenant William “Liam” Turner.

“I will not see my great-grandson die or lead him to rest while I still have life in me,” stated the captain of the _Dutchman_ , William “Bootstrap Bill” Turner. “That curse upon Will was broken after the ten years he served, and I promised my son that if I see any of his descendants on the oceans, I will not let them be taken by the sea!” In a slightly more controlled tone, the captain said, “You know what needs to be done, Jack.”

Unusually solemn, Sparrow reached into his vest and pulled out a pouch that seemed to rhythmically thump up and down as if on its own mechanism or was alive. “Heady tonic, holding life and death for so many years,” said Sparrow. “I’ve always wondered why you gave this to me.”

“Because you’re a pirate, just like me…and because you’re the only pirate I could trust,” said the _Dutchman_ ’s captain, kneeling down and accepting the pouch containing the living heart.

“Can I have the _Pearl_ back now, Bill?”

Unwrapping the heart from its pouch and placing it on the ground near the dying Lieutenant’s bloody hand, the captain unsheathed a dirk from his belt and placed it into the officer’s hand. With one last glance up at the infamous pirate that he had served under before he had died and become a part of the _Dutchman_ ’s crew, he said to Sparrow, “Yes. The _Black Pearl_ is yours once again, Captain Jack Sparrow.”

The captain of the _Dutchman_ guided his descendant’s hand with the dirk into the living heart, ending his own life but extended the life of his great-grandson. As the crew of the Dutchman crowded around, their chants steadily grew as one of them drew out another dirk and readied it to plunge it into the chest of Lieutenant Turner.

The _Dutchman_ always needed a captain.

 

*** * ***

 

In the cover of the thick fog and with the moon having slipped behind nighttime clouds, the three-ship squadron under Hornblower’s command made their way towards the location of the _Integrity_ and _Groton_. As they neared the location, puffs of smoke illuminated by the orange-white glow of fired gunpowder in the darkness, briefly lit up from both sides of the dark-hulled silhouettes of the three fighting ships. The combined efforts of Mound and Vickery’s crews had yielded success in over taking the enemy ship, and as the last vestiges of resistance on the French ship died away, did the moon appear again from behind the clouds.

“Lantern off the larboard bow!” called down one of crew members at the main topgallant mast’s nest.

Bush could feel the tension rise among his crew as he, Hornblower, and Groves headed towards the larboard side, squinting through the darkness to see a very faint, almost invisible against the dark night sky, illumination of a lantern in the far distance. “Ha-h’m. That is but one of the two ships we are searching for, Captain Bush,” began Hornblower. “I will leave it in your capable hands to take her as a prize while I transfer command to the _Amaranthe_. Please see to it the appropriate signals are sent to the _Integrity_ and _Groton_ and tell them to hold here for now until I and the others return from our hunt for the third frigate.”

Flabbergasted but able to recover swiftly from the compliment that he had been paid, Bush acknowledged the order. As preparations were quickly made for Hornblower to disembark and transfer command, Bush also ensured that his crew was ready to attack the distant ship as soon as the Commodore was away. Only minutes after the Commodore’s gig was received by the _Amaranthe_ did Bush order all sails loosened to catch the night breeze, sending the _Meridian_ speeding towards its prey.

The 36-gunned frigate caught up with her French quarry, pouncing on the 28-gunned frigate with a ferocity that spoke volumes of how the _Meridian_ ’s crew felt about their ordeal at being pursued by the frigate and her sister ships. Each cannonade that lanced from the _Meridian_ ’s guns hit true and splintered the deck and hull of the French frigate. Every iron that was shorn against her only felt similar to a mere sting, and it was with some what reluctance that after the French ship had received three grapeshot broadsides, and felling the mizzenmast of the frigate, did the crew stop firing and seemingly surrendered to the English ship with her colors pulled – with not one English sailor boarding her even yet.

“Mr. Norrington,” shouted Bush, slightly waving a hand to clear away the acrid smoke of cannon fire from his eyes. Bush saw the midshipman glance up from assessing the gun crews he was in charge of, and hurried his way towards his captain. As Norrington made his way from the forward section of the deck towards the aft, Bush quickly surveyed the damage done to his ship as the shouts of the wounded were starting to fade away as they were carried below deck. Splintered wood and pieces of iron littered the deck, railings were broken, and at least two cannons had been blown out of their cradles. He would go below deck in a few minutes to see how many have been wounded and the status of the ship below. The _Meridian_ was a tough old bird and Bush knew that she had survived worse and made it back to port before.

“Yes, sir?” asked Norrington as he came to attention before Bush.

“Take two divisions of men and board her. As soon as you have secured her, enact repairs only as needed as we sail to meet the _Integrity_ and _Groton_ ,” said Bush, pausing for only a moment to see the surprise appear on the midshipman’s face as Norrington realized that he had finally been given an opportunity to command a prize ship. “I will leave it to your judgment to determine if she is seaworthy enough to sail back to England with the squadron or if she needs to be sent to Kingston for repairs.”

It took a moment for Norrington to recover from his shock before he smartly replied with an “Aye aye, sir!”

As Midshipman Norrington gathered his division and another and made ready to board the surrendered French ship, Bush ensured that temporary command of the deck was given to Groves and made his way below to inspect the damage wrought to his ship. He returned to moonlit night sky minutes after ensuring that the _Meridian_ was staying afloat, and that all necessary repairs had been started.

“Sir, signal from _Neptune_ – the captured French ship, sir, while you were gone. She has been successfully boarded and has officially surrendered,” said Lieutenant Groves as soon as he made his way back up to the poop to survey both the damage and the captured ship.

“Good,” he replied, glancing up at the rippling sails and then the moving clouds as the moon peeked out from the cloud cover. The ship name of _Neptune_ sounded familiar, but last Bush had heard of a French ship named with that particular name, he had seen it in a proclamation that announced the successful victory for the English forces at Trafalgar. That eighty-four gunned _Neptune_ had been among the few to have escaped. “Signal to _Neptune_ ‘ship condition needed within one hour’.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the lieutenant replied and hurried to send up the appropriate signals.

“Captain Bush, may I presume that it is now ‘safe’ to come out of the cabin?” said the familiar voice of Kennedy as he somewhat curiously climbed up the stairs.

In the midst of the battle and pursuit of the French ship, Bush had forgotten that Kennedy had been on his ship. “Yes, it is, Mr. Whittaker,” he answered.

“It has been a long time since I have participated in any naval engagements,” said Kennedy out loud.

“You served on His Majesty’s ships before, Mr. Whittaker?” asked Bush, though he kept his tone polite and indifferent. Internally, he suspected that Kennedy had noticed that the number of crewmen had been reduced to command the prize ship, though he was not too sure as to what Kennedy was aiming for with his words.

“I did, long ago, before other services recruited me for skills that did not pertain to the Navy,” said Kennedy. “If I could be of any help, I would like to earn my keep on the ship other than being a passenger, Captain.”

Subtly with words was not Bush’s forte, but the words Kenney spoke were blunt enough that he, Bush, understood exactly the man was requesting. However, he knew that no crew would accept a stranger whom they had seen being a mere passenger, as one of their own or even in command of them, unless that passenger was in naval dressage. Bush would not even consider putting Kennedy in a naval uniform just to add another hand to help command the guns if they had to engage an unexpected enemy on their way back to England, for he knew that there was an enormous gulf of years that separated Kennedy from the Royal Navy service. He was not going to risk his men for the sake of someone who had not been in command of a gun crew in thirteen years.

“I hope that we will not encounter anything unpleasant on our way back to England with our prizes,” he said as diplomatically as he could. However, he knew in his heart that he could not discount the fact that Kennedy had had experience and therefore, tempered the obviously disappointing reply with, “Perhaps though, you can tell me of what experiences you have encountered during your service with His Majesty’s Navy.”

To this, he thought he saw Kennedy smile, but the moon had hidden itself behind the clouds again and the lanterns were not bright enough other than for him to see a vague outline of someone’s face. “Ah,” began Kennedy, “My short naval career started on the _Justinian_ …”

Less than an hour later, with Kennedy’ brief, altered history of naval service given, Bush received the _Neptune_ ’s condition from Norrington and it bore both good and bad news. The good one was that she was not holed below her waterline, but the bad news was that she had an un-repairable mizzenmast and the extra timber that had been in her stores had been used to shore up her mainmast from a previous engagement. Had the moon not slipped behind the clouds again and the wind started to pick up, along with the ache in Bush’s amputated leg that told him a storm was coming, he would have had his crew transfer over the necessary supplies to erect a temporary mizzenmast, but it seemed as if a storm was about to unleash her fury.

He ordered signal to leave and set course for where they had left the _Integrity_ and _Groton_ , allowing the _Neptune_ to take the lead. His worry that the _Neptune_ would not be able to keep up with the charging _Meridian_ was unfounded, for even with a missing mast, the shape of her hull allowed her to glide across the water just as fast as _Meridian_ with the same sail configuration.

Their approach to the _Groton_ and _Integrity_ was noted with certain wariness, but quickly dissipated when they confirmed that the _Meridian_ was not taken and she was instead, herding a prize ship back towards them. Bush left Groves to oversee the bringing to of the _Meridian_ and her prize, along with the necessary exchanges of supplies that the other ships would possibly need as he ducked into the cabin to log what had happened during the middle watch.

He flipped to a clean sheet in the journal, he took down brief notes about the battle in capturing the _Neptune_ , along with the assignment of Norrington and the division of two men the midshipman had with him. As an additional note, he also made a small remark regarding ‘Mr. Whittaker’s prior experience as a naval officer’. However, just as he was closing the journal and made to mark the map where the engagement between the _Meridian_ and _Neptune_ had taken place, he heard something knock over behind him.

Turning around, he dropped the quill as he stared in shock, almost forgetting to breathe as he saw the disheveled, dripping wet form of his former first lieutenant. He blinked several times, hoping that he had somehow just fallen asleep on the table, but the image of the recently deceased Lieutenant Turner stayed, still dressed in the naval uniform, albeit it was soaked in seawater and had a briny smell to it.

“Please do not be alarmed, sir,” said Lieutenant Turner.

“Y-y-you,” began Bush, finding his breath and tried to speak, but the shock of seeing someone who was dead was quite overwhelming for him. Finally, after taking a few deep breaths to somewhat calm his panic and rapidly beating heart down, he managed to say, “You died.”

“The _Dutchman_ always needs a captain, sir,” said Turner. “I am only here to bring you a warning even though I am not supposed to take sides. It is the least I can do, sir. A storm is coming, and I do not mean the edge of the hurricane which will pass by you in a few hours. Another storm in the form of the Malagasy Fleet will be upon you and the squadron in two hours. Respectfully, sir, you need to warn the Caribbean Fleet because the Malagasy Fleet is not here for the sunken treasures, but to free their colonies.”

“Why do you not warn them yourself, Mr. Turner?” asked Bush, confused more at the words than the fact that someone deceased was actually alive and talking.

“They would sooner try to kill me than listen to me, sir,” stated Turner. “At least you and the others in the squadron had seen enough strange sightings these past few weeks to almost believe the impossible.”

Bush had to admit that his former lieutenant had him there with his logic. They had seen ghosts, strange images, pirates who should have been long gone, mermaids…the list could go on, but he did not have to think hard to remember the strange weeks. Even though he knew that Hornblower dismissed almost every strange sighting as superstitious nonsense with a calm that soothed everyone, the crews had become somewhat accustomed to seeing strange things. The fear he had was still there, but it was not as pervasive as it had been. The sea was an ever-changing mistress and she gave, took, and showed herself in bizarre ways.

“Two hours, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Turner.

Bush turned back to the map and ran a critical eye over where the last marked spot that told of the potential position of the Malagasy Fleet was. He heard something splash behind him and turned around to see nothing except for the closed cabin’s windows and a small amount of paraphernalia that was gathered there. There was not even a drop of water on the ground and he wondered how exactly the noise of the splash had been made. Turner was gone as fast as he had mysteriously appeared.

Thinking no more about the strange event that he had doubts about for there was no sense in trying to comprehend the mystery, he returned his attention to the map before him. Taking the small, folded compass on the desk, he opened it slightly to about a two hour estimate from where the squadron currently was. If he were to actually believe the events that just happened, and if what his former first lieutenant said was true, the enemy fleet was riding on the coattails of the powerful winds of a hurricane. Marking out the estimated hours of journey to where the main bulk of the Fleet was currently located, he concluded that they would not have a lot of time to spare between the warning and the start of a rather large oceanic battle. The _Meridian_ already had gone through at least two tons of powder to capture her prize and she had only been configured and equipped to carry the now-nonexistent treasure. He pondered for a moment on how to convince the others, especially the Commodore, that he was not delusional…

There was an urgent knock on the cabin door and he shouted, “Enter!”

It was Groves who entered, looking slightly out of breath as he said, “Sir, the Commodore’s ship has just returned and has called for all captains to report to the _Amaranthe_ without delay. We are already readying your gig.”

“Thank you, Mr. Groves,” said Bush, briefly wondering at this strange turn of events, and the even more stranger and uncommon rush in Hornblower’s call for captains. “The urgency of this request makes it so that formalities can be dispensed, Lieutenant.” He followed the lieutenant out of the cabin and saw off the starboard side, the familiar lamp signals of both the _Amaranthe_ and _Winter_ and then the third and final French frigate that had been captured, in between the two sloops with a strange lamp signal configuration. With the quickness and precision of his crew, honed by years of life at sea and months in the presence of Commodore Hornblower who had watched them up until now, the boat was lowered quickly.

However, before Bush climbed over the side and down into the boat, he turned to Groves and said, “Log Mr. Whittaker’s name into the books and introduce him to Mr. Turner’s gun crew.”

“Sir,” began Groves, who looked as if he wanted to protest the decision and was terribly confused as to why his captain was giving such a strange press order. “Aye aye, sir.”

If it affected Bush to not be able to confirm his suspicions as to what the urgency of Hornblower’s request for all captains to report, he did not show it. He would have told his first lieutenant, but even he was unsure about what had happened in the cabin. Without another word and with no fanfare, Bush was soon being rowed as swiftly as possible to the _Amaranthe_.

Lieutenant Mound was already there when he, Bush, along with the others, including those who commanded the prizes were ushered into the small cabin, though Bush was a little thankful that it was still night and not during the blazing heat of the day. Not that he would ever complain, especially not when he was summoned by Hornblower at any time of the day, but there were just a few small things he was thankful for.

“Captains rhys-Diar, Rutherford, and I have seen a large fleet when we chased down our French quarry,” began Hornblower without any preamble as soon as the door to the cabin was closed. “I believe that this is the Malagasy Fleet and they are riding the winds of an incoming storm, possibly a hurricane. Unfortunately, this storm will prevent us from sailing to England.”

“Lieutenant Mound,” said Hornblower after pausing for one moment, “go now and take these dispatches—“ Hornblower handed the lieutenant a packet that looked as if it had been hastily sealed in canvas and wax –“and make with all haste to the _Forester_. Give these only to Admiral Cole and warn him of the incoming fleet. You will wait there until the rest of us arrive.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Mound without question, took the packet and quickly left.

“Unfortunately, gentlemen,” continued Hornblower after the cabin door closed again, “we do not have much time to transfer necessary provisions and materials to those who need them. We can, however, distribute the crews as necessary. We must make haste to the Caribbean Fleet and make the necessary repairs while en-route. I will need a brief summary of your ship’s condition.”

As each of the commanding officers of their respective ships gave a very brief summary of how their ship was faring, Bush saw Hornblower nod only once or twice, his brown eyes betraying no hint of anything that he might be thinking. There was a perpetual frown on Hornblower’s face that only got slightly longer when French prisoners were mentioned. At long last, though it was no more than five minutes, Hornblower spoke up, saying, “Releasing the French prisoners to help crew the ships is too risky. If there is time when we arrive, we will unload the prisoners. Each captured ship will need at least two-and-a-half divisions of men to crew her and keep her afloat and at least nine Marines. Captain Bush and Captain Vickery, we will be transferring men from your crews to the ships. Two divisions from _Meridian_ will be sent to the _Felicite_ and _Cygne_ and a division from _Integrity_ will be distributed among the ships.”

After confirming their orders, Hornblower then discussed the formation of the ships, along with the signal lamps that were to be used. With what looked to be a tight inverted V-formation with the _Meridian_ at the lead, it seemed to be a nightmare to maintain tack and navigate while running from the enemy fleet that was chasing them down. As Hornblower explained the concept to ensure that all the ship commanders understood what was required, Bush found it to be immensely elegant after the explanation and less than a nightmare, though the analogy used to describe the concept was, to him, odd.

Using migratory birds as an example, Hornblower pointed out that the lead ship would be taking the brunt force of the sea, while others would be gliding in close to the ship’s wake. That tightness of the formation would allow the wind to push the smaller vessels to match speed with the _Meridian_ on a full sail configuration while the sea that the _Meridian_ cut through would push back at her to ensure that she did not out-sail the rest of the squadron. It was a well-designed plan, and with Hornblower guiding them, Bush was confident that they would be able to pull it off.

One hour later, at two bells of the morning watch,, with the sky slowly lightening, showing just how low and long storm clouds were gathering, the squadron had finished all their hurried transfers of people. At the signal from the _Amaranthe_ , in which Hornblower stayed with and commanded the squadron from, the squadron swiftly sailed away from the roughening winds, just as the first tips of numerous white sail was spotted by telescope.

This was no phantom fleet this time; for though the thick, heavy, grey clouds threatened to open the heavens up to a torrential downpour, no rain dropped in the hour that it took for the sun to fully rise, and the squadron sail further onwards towards safety. With the heat and humidity on the rise, Bush placed his telescope down from his eye, just as four bells struck in the morning watch. He had not been able to see any sign of white sails since the third bell had been struck, and neither did the crewman on the nest.

Awestruck by the brilliance of Hornblower’s simple change in formation sailing for the ships, Bush allowed himself a brief smile before his thoughts focused on what had been said at that hasty meeting. Bush had had doubts as to what he had witnessed in the cabin of his ship earlier, but with Hornblower eerily confirming what his supposedly deceased and strangely absent former first lieutenant had said, he could only wonder if there was some higher force at work. The swiftness of their flight towards the safety of the Caribbean Fleet told him that their estimated arrival time would be in six hours or less. It would be almost or right at the start of the afternoon watch, when the blazing sun and heat were at their zenith and that spelled a situation that Bush was intimately familiar with and did not want to repeat.

The Battle of Trafalgar had started near the zenith of the day and the air had been relatively cooler and less humid than it was now, though once the fighting had started, the cannonades had caused the air to be saturated in heat. Bush did not need to close his eyes to remember or hear the screams of the dying, his own voice hoarse as he commanded his gun crew, or rivulets of sweat he had felt streaming down his own face, mirroring that of those around him. He could remember and see it all before him clear as it was now.

The heat was going to affect all the men, and it would be hotter than it was at Trafalgar – it had been a miracle that not one English ship had been lost at Trafalgar for the aftermath of the battle saw victory but also saw dozens of men to the surgeon; not for wounds but for what several surgeons had called heat illness. Several good men of his gun division had died from it without suffering a wound. Bush himself had also been among those who had collapsed out of sheer bittersweet joy for their victory, but also for heat illness – he had been lucky to survive. If the upcoming battle was not to kill or wound most of men, Bush knew that the typical Caribbean weather would.

“Sir,” the voice of Groves interrupted Bush’s thoughts, “You asked to be reminded about the provisions down below?”

“Yes,” said Bush, “We need to take stock of what we have and move things around. Rearrange it so that half of the powder we have left is distributed aft and forward, nowhere near the pump and as much of it above the waterline as possible. Food and water provisions will stay where they are. Empty barrels are to be lined starboard and aft, below the waterline. We may not get a chance to restore the empty holds before this battle is upon us, Lieutenant.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Groves.

“Mr. Groves,” said Bush before the lieutenant could leave. “How does the crew take to Mr. Whittaker?”

“With all that has happened, sir, fairly well, though if I may say so sir, we haven’t had a space or time to even breathe,” admitted Groves.

“Good,” answered Bush, nodding to himself. With the men all busy, there was no time for them to speculate on Kennedy’s history of naval service. In the end however, logic won out and Bush had decided he had no choice but to press Kennedy into service, even at the risk of the large years that the man had not commanded a gun crew. He had not even told Hornblower that he had pressed Kennedy into service again, and he wondered if he would ever get to. However, that was a wasted train of thought to pursue and he focused himself again, saying, “Set out at least four barrels of powder before you start to move the cargo around and please have Major DeWitt report to me.”

“Aye aye, sir,” acknowledged Groves, leaving to fetch the commanding officer of the Marines before heading below to marshal some of the men into moving the provisions.

Over the course of the morning watch and into the forenoon watch, the crew of the _Meridian_ prepared both their ship and themselves for the inevitability of battle. It was not only the _Meridian_ , but the entire squadron at their captains’ orders, preparing in their own way, with practiced years of life at sea. With small bursts of squall bands drenching the squadron at random times on their flight to safety and breezy, outlying winds from the hurricane just passing north of them, the squadron trudged on, hoping to make it to their destination before they saw white sails on their aft horizon.

It was a few minutes into the start of the afternoon watch that one of the seamen sighted sail, not from the squadron’s stern but from the bow. On the clear horizon over a light blue sky did the Caribbean Fleet arrive; in the form of dotted sails that spelled a welcome relief to the beleaguered squadron. As the squadron took in sail and tacked accordingly to Hornblower’s orders through signal flags, the approach of the Fleet sailing out to meet both the squadron and the incoming enemy was like a wall of white sails, proud and tall.

As the squadron glided in, Bush counted only sixteen other vessels, all of varying sizes, with the smallest one being a twenty-gun ship, with the exception of the _Groton_ , which looked like a toy ship amongst the large ships. He knew that there were at least five other ships in the fleet, and they were most likely left behind to ensure that the blockade would still hold. Largest of the ships was the _Forester_ , 100-gun and the flagship of Admiral Cole, whom Bush had remembered participating in the bloody affair at Trafalgar as a Commodore. As both the squadron and the fleet sailed closer to each other, a slew of signal flags started to be exchanged between the flagship and the squadron. Admiral Cole called for the squadron to come about and maintain formation within the fleet while he summoned Hornblower to the _Forester_.

Sails from each ship in the fleet were taken in as Hornblower’s squadron started to integrate themselves within the stationary fleet. It was when the _Meridian_ finally came about and neatly inserted herself within the fleet before being brought to that Bush took a very good look at the dark horizon before them. The central wrath of the hurricane was far from the fleet, but the winds were blustery and not steady at all. The dark skies in the distance contrasted greatly with the blazing sun and heat that was bearing down upon the fleet.

Bush exchanged a few shouted words through the trumpet with the ships next to the _Meridian_ and found the news that he heard not very interesting. All the captains knew were that a fleet had been sent from the French African colonies to take back the French Caribbean colonies. He could feel the impatience inside of him for the battle to begin, though when he brought up his telescope; it was at the same time that multiple cries from the fleet announced the arrival of the Malagasy Fleet.

Through his telescope, Bush counted at least thirty-three sails on the horizon, riding on the strong winds and lowered the telescope from his eye. He glanced down the line of ships and half-expected to see the _Victory_ among them, but that image and of the morale-raising signal that Admiral Nelson had sent just before the Battle of Trafalgar began, faded from his eyes and was replaced by the multiple signals originating from Admiral Cole’s ship.

He lifted his telescope to his eye to read the signals, just as Groves spoke up, saying, “Signal from flagship, sir—“

“I know what its saying, Lieutenant,” he said, not harshly, but more of a murmur to himself as he read the orders from the _Forester_ , then trained his telescope to the tiny-looking 18-gun _Amaranthe_ , which was floating quite close beside the 100-gun _Forester_. Both the _Amaranthe_ and the _Worchester_ , under the command of Commodore Williams sent up signals after the _Forester_ was done, calling for specific ships within the fleet. Bush read those short orders from the _Amaranthe_ , since the _Meridian_ and all ships including the captured French frigates had been signaled and snapped his telescope closed. He briefly wondered who exactly had come up with the tactics for Admiral Cole’s reputation as a strategist and tactician was commendable, but he had heard that the admiral sometimes accepted unconventional ideas from his juniors. He allowed himself the thought that perhaps, Hornblower had advised the admiral on a few tactics for the upcoming battle.

Taking no more time on that thought, he cast one last glance over the bow of the _Meridian_ as the white topsails of the oncoming enemy fleet slowly grew larger and gave the command to beat to quarters and make the appropriate sail. Of all the strangeness he had seen at the sea lately, this particular one seemed quite like a normal occurrence, albeit it reminded him somewhat of the ghostly battle between the pirate fleet and the English fleet. At least there was a tangible enemy this time and not ghosts or nightmares come alive.

Bush also allowed himself one last brief thought before completely focusing his thoughts on the battle that was about to begin. By adopting the tactic that Admiral Nelson used during Trafalgar, in which Bush recalled that the ship he served on, the _Temeraire_ had been on the front lines of the weather column; Admiral Cole was hoping to break the Malagasy Fleet in the same fashion. Two columns had broken the line at Trafalgar, and two columns commanded by Admiral Cole and Commodore Williams would try to break the line in the Caribbean, allowing the hidden third column, commanded by Hornblower to break the will of the French.

 

~*~*~*~


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hornblower commands an interceptor group that has been charged with the task of hit-and-runs against the French colonies and supply ships, while the main flotilla is blockading the French ships. When he is given a mission to take an important asset to the War back to England with all haste, little does he know what awaits him and his squadron is a run through the gauntlet not heard of since before the end of the golden age of high seas piracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Publishing: Livejournal, June 2011.

The roar of the cannonades from the first few ships in the columns that tore into the line of French ships was heard even at the end of the columns. Bush watched the French line slowly folded into two columns as the tip of the English weather column drifted to larboard and the leeward column drifted to starboard. Acrid smoke drifting downwards towards the end of the column from the intense amount of cannon fire that was barraging both the front most ships made it hard to see how destructive the onslaught was.

“Sir, signal from the _Amaranthe_ ,” said Groves, who had a telescope to his eye, pointed not at the battle that was taking place upward of the weather column that the _Meridian_ was sailing with, but towards the leeward column. “Proceed, it says!”

That was the signal that Bush and three other ships of Hornblower’s squadron had been expecting. He ordered his coxswain to bring the ship hard to larboard with the appropriate sail to catch as much of the wind as possible. The _Neptune_ and _Cygne_ leapt ahead, despite the _Neptune_ having lost her mizzenmast, and was swiftly followed by the more nimble _Groton_. With the _Meridian_ bringing up the rear of the tiny column formation that surged ahead of the weather column on the column’s larboard side, Bush could only hope that the thick smoke would be enough to obscure most of the main bulk of the French and English forces from them. It would enable the third column to launch an attack straight through the heart of the French forces.

As Groves kept a sharp eye on the distant other half of the squadron, whom Hornblower was commanding, that had peeled off to the starboard of the leeward column and was rounding the leeward French ships to meet with Bush’s half of the squadron, Bush kept his attention on the other ships in front of the _Meridian_. In a similar fashion that Hornblower had devised while sailing to the Baltic, the _Meridian_ would be the last ship through the ‘gauntlet’, enabling her large bulk to hopefully shield the smaller ships and drag them out if they were in danger of sinking in the eventual crossfire of French cannonades. The French prizes would pull through the center of the French formation first, hopefully confusing the French and allowing the smaller ships to follow swiftly behind with their own barrage.

Bush had thought it was a very elegant plan, though the risks of a ship sinking increased with each ship that would pass through the French formation. Nevertheless, it also spared the squadron the onslaught that the other English fleet ships were currently facing, given the limited supplies that Hornblower’s squadron had onboard, and that all ships were already battle-damaged from their encounters during the night.

As soon as Groves announced that Hornblower and his four ships had started to make their turn towards larboard, Bush ordered the signal flags to be raised and saw the ships in front of the _Meridian_ start their turn towards starboard. The blustery wind caused Bush to take in some sail so they would not overtake the other three ships. As they sailed across the battling weather column, Bush clearly saw that the English forces had successfully boxed the French forces. He could also see in the distance, though partially obscured by the smoke, Hornblower and the four ships under his command.

The same wind that gave them the necessary speed to come in behind the French forces unexpectedly gusted and blew some of the obscuring smoke away. Just as the final signal flag from Hornblower was reflected in all four of his ships, and acknowledged by the four approaching ships, by starting to turn into the center of the French formation, did Bush start to see signal flags being raised by some of the French forces.

Charging swiftly down the center of the French columns that were engaged against the English weather and leeward columns, the _Neptune_ , followed by _Felicite_ and _Cygne_ opened fire, alternating between their starboard and larboard guns, for they did not have the full complement of crews to operate all sides at once. Their bombardment of either side of the French columns was met with swift reprisal as the French scrambled to meet this new offensive.

Only a few of the French ships managed to get their guns to bear on this new enemy that was cutting them in half before the next wave of bombardment, this time from the nimble _Integrity_ , _Groton_ , _Amaranthe_ , and _Ember of Winter_ rained down upon them. By the time Bush saw the silhouette of the _Winter_ disappear into the thick smoke that only illuminated the vague shadows of the fighting ships down the column, he ordered bow guns to fire upon the French ship that was currently engaged with the _Forester_ and brought the _Meridian_ into the fight.

“Starboard and larboard, fire as they bear!” bellowed Bush as the command was echoed by the gun captains, shortly before the bombardment of iron from the enemy forces began.

The deck beneath him shuddered as the _Meridian_ answered with a volley of her own, along with the sharp report of rifles being fired by the Marines echoing the volley with swift _pings_ , just as another volley plowed into her decks. Cannons flew from their cradles and onto the splintered deck as the force of the explosions and bombardment sent men overboard or impaled them with flecks of iron and wood. Bush felt himself slam rather hard into the poop’s railing as a cannonball from one of the French ships tore into the _Meridian_ ’s stern. With his ears ringing, he picked himself up, shook his head once to clear it, saw in the distance that Kennedy was still alive and urging his gun crew to reload, and glanced back to see that the wheel had not been shorn off.

They could still steer, and even though there were a few holes in her sails, the _Meridian_ was sailing further into the gauntlet of French ships. A sudden gust of wind, followed by a rather large heaving of the ship towards starboard as her larboard batteries fired, brought the start of a torrential downpour.

As he shouted for the powder to be kept dry in the soaking wet deluge, that gust of wind had also clear some of the acrid smoke off the bow of the _Meridian_. Bush only had a moment to process his shock as he saw that three cable lengths away from the _Meridian_ , the _Amaranthe_ had been shorn of both her mainmast and mizzenmast. She was nearly dead in the water, had it not been for the full sail that she carried in her small foremast. Crossing into the path of a volley that had been intended for the _Amaranthe_ , the _Winter_ took the brunt of the enemy’s larboard broadside before answering with a hail of her own and continued to charge as fast as she could down the gauntlet.

Bush shouted for tow cables to be readied as the ship violently rocked against another barrage, causing Bush to turn to the side as shrapnel splashed across the quarter deck. He resumed giving his orders for some sail to be taken in to slow them down, and in between volleys, he managed to grab a free-rolling telescope from the debris-littered ground to see through the drenching rain he tried to see if Hornblower was still alive. Unfortunately, the blinding squall was too thick and the smoke hazy enough that he could not see anything except for the stalled hulk of the ship continually firing its cannons as fast as possible.

Just as the _Meridian_ started to come up the larboard side of the heavily damaged _Amaranthe_ , Bush spied Captain Rutherford and some of the men trying to chop away the downed sails and rigging. Hastily grabbing the speaking trumpet from amongst the debris, Bush ordered the men who had the tow cable to get ready to toss the line, and just as he took two steps towards the starboard side to shout for the readiness of Rutherford and his men to catch the cable, a smattering of grapeshot slammed into the stern. Sharp slivers and splinters of wood and iron shorn from the deck and the iron bands bracing the _Meridian_ ’s mizzenmast scattered as the grapeshot peppered the area. Bush felt burning pain sear the left side of his face and arms as the shrapnel cut across.

Ignoring the pain, he shouted through the trumpet towards the _Amaranthe_ ’s captain who waved his arms in return and then ordered the men to toss the line. It hit the deck of the ship and as the men scurried quickly to secure it to the stub of the _Amaranthe_ ’s mizzenmast, Bush heard the familiar roar of Hornblower giving the order to fire all that remained of the _Amaranthe_ ’s starboard cannons. Doubling the barrage of cannon fire at almost the same time was the _Meridian_ ’s starboard cannons, and through the irritating smoke mixed with rain, Bush saw that Kennedy, along with some of the other gun crews and captains, had wisely lifted the angle of the cannons. Had Bush been paying more attention to the brief distillation of smoke that would have told him the physical condition of the Commodore, he would have seen the stunned look Hornblower had as he looked up to see Kennedy manning several gun crews. Alas though, as always a consummate and professional officer, Bush had more pressing needs to ensure that the Commodore and the ship the Commodore was commanding from made it out of the gauntlet.

The _Meridian_ ’s larboard cannons responded in kind near the apex of the rocking from the starboard firing, and as suddenly as the soaking squall started, it stopped, allowing the tropical sun to beat down on the oceanic combatants. In the very brief period where there were no cannon fire at all and only the accentuated firings of rifles from the Marines seemed to dominate, Bush thought he heard the crackling of a mast about to fall. That crackling sound was overtaken by a tremendous volley from the _Forester_ as she unleashed a near-simultaneous broadside on one of the French ships that had tried to sink the _Amaranthe_.

As Hornblower had advised Bush with the same maneuver that felt so long ago in the Baltic, so he continued to ease the _Meridian_ down the gauntlet as she rocked and splintered with each cannonade that slammed into her hull. As soon as he ensured that the line between the two ships was taut and secure before ordering for more sail to be unfurled. As damaged as she was from the barrage, the _Meridian_ leapt forward under a gust of wind, towing the injured ship down the remaining length of the gauntlet to safety.

The same gust of wind also gave speed to the French ships traveling in the same direction as the third column, leading both the crew of the _Meridian_ and _Amaranthe_ firing perpetually at the same ships, making no headway towards freedom. Overhead, clouds quickly rolled in again, announcing the arrival of another squall line with drenching rain, and Bush saw another damaged ship that, similar to the _Amaranthe_ , had lost both her mainmast and her mizzenmast. With horror, Bush saw that it was the _Groton_ , and she had been completely dismasted of her mainmast – neither the mast or sails were no where to be seen anywhere in the debris-filled water near the 18-gunned brig. Impossibly, she was only sailing with bowsprit sails and still trying to glide down the column. Seven cable lengths ahead, was the _Winter_ , still firing her cannons madly at the French ships, sailing with a full sail configuration.

With the trumpet in hand, Bush shouted the status of what he had seen up about five cable lengths ahead, to Hornblower. Though the rain and smoke blurred his vision, he thought he saw Hornblower shake his head before he heard the confirming orders from the Commodore’s shout though a trumpet. The _Meridian_ was no where near as powerful as the _Nonsuch_ and could not tow two ships out of the gauntlet without compromising herself. They could not tow Lieutenant Mound and his ship out.

A thunderous crack tore across the sky, echoing the cannon fire as the rain poured down. It was not the rolling sound of thunder that had caused that noise, but the snap of the _Meridian_ ’s fore topmast, carrying the fore topgallant with it as it came crashing down onto the bow and half-submerged its sails into the sea. As Bush called for crewmen to chop away the debris, he and the others on the deck were unexpectedly drench in an enormous wave of water. Spluttering the salty, stinging water out of his mouth, Bush turned to see what had caused that rogue wave and stood still for a moment in utter astonishment.

What had suddenly rose from the depths of the debris-filled water and almost next to the _Meridian_ was a behemoth of a ship, showering filthy seawater all over the place. The ship was covered in barnacles, rotted wood, and long, enormous strands of seaweed and its putrid, rotted stench overpowered the smell of burning ships and cannon smoke. It to him a moment, but Bush recognized the ship, and the overwhelming stench of the ship – it was the _Flying Dutchman_. As soon as that thought hit him, his superstitious nature questioned the reasoning as to why the _Dutchman_ was here; was the _Meridian_ and her tow cargo, _Amaranthe_ about to be sunk with all hands lost?

As the _Dutchman_ settled into the water, spilling more seawater across the _Meridian_ ’s deck, washing it in mucky debris, Bush saw who exactly was at the helm of the doom-portended ship. He found himself absently raising a hand to his hat in acknowledgement to the same one he received from the captain of the _Dutchman_ , the former first lieutenant of the _Meridian_ , Liam Turner. It was after that action that he realized that the ships that had been firing at the _Meridian_ had ceased firing and glanced up to see that several of the French ships had raised signals.

On the other hand, the English had no such qualms about the French ceasing their cannonades for a moment, nor of the full sails that each was draping over their masts to seemingly escape, and kept firing their cannons. Realizing the advantage that the _Dutchman_ had given to them, Bush ordered his crew to snap back into action and to fire upon the retreating French, who were turning into the stronger gusts of wind as quickly as they could to escape. The seemingly blind and uncoordinated firing of the French was realized by the English, who tried to take advantage of the confused enemy, but when another rough gust of wind blew the squall clear of the skies above the battling fleets, the English finally had a good view of just what had scared the French fleet into a disorganized retreat.

As the _Meridian_ drifted further and further away from the stationary _Dutchman_ , the other ships of the English fleet dared not approach them, save for one ship. Bush saw that it was the _Neptune_ , having fared the best out of the three French prizes, she was sailing back and glided towards the _Groton_. As the _Meridian_ sailed closer to the _Groton_ and the retreating French ships started to drift out of range of her guns, he saw a tow cable being thrown from the _Neptune_ to the _Groton_. He also saw that the English fleet, badly battered, but with not one ship sunk, elected not to pursue the retreating French. After the French drifted out of the range of the _Forester_ ’s cannons, did Bush finally stand his crew down from battle.

Taking one last glance back, he saw that the _Dutchman_ remained where she was, stationary, and he could not fathom why. However, he heard the creak on the half-shattered stairs up to the poop as his first lieutenant said, “Sir, did you see who the captain of the _Dutchman_ was?”

“I did, Mr. Groves,” replied Bush. “But…why?”

“If I may, sir,” spoke up Kennedy who had quietly followed Groves. “The _Dutchman_ needs to constantly replenish her crew. What better place than a battlefield such as this?”

Disquiet filled Bush as he absently nodded to the comment and turned back to formally assess the damage that had been wrought to his ship and to his crew. He also had to ensure that Hornblower was uninjured and still able to perform his duties – there was much to do as the _Meridian_ towing the Commodore’s ship rejoined the fleet, sailing back to Kingston for some sorely needed repairs and refitting. He tried to put aside the uneasiness, but found it hard to, for his question of ‘why’ had not been fully answered, and he had a feeling that it would never be answered.

 

* * *

 

Had the battle continued without the arrival of the _Dutchman_ , it would have eventually been a defeat for the English Fleet – at least that was what Hornblower had said in a sharp, indifferent tone when the two of them took an early morning walk around a small area of Kingston several days after the fleet-to-fleet engagement. Just as Bush had been about to contradict that statement, Hornblower had given a clear and concise argument for why the defeat of the English fleet would have happened.

He patiently listened as Hornblower explained that while the English fleet had been equipped with the 100-gunned _Forester_ as the helming ship, the fleet was not composed of more robustly gunned ships than the fleet that had fought at Trafalgar. There had been only 1008 guns to the English fleet versus the estimated 1908 guns of the French fleet. Clearly out gunned and outmanned the two column maneuver that had been a desperate move to break the line and attempt to scare the French into thinking that there were more than twenty four ships in the English fleet.

Bush maintained his silence at Hornblower’s terse assessment, for it was not his usual acceptance of the facts presented that kept him silent but his realization that though Hornblower’s opinion was valid, this particular engagement did not have the magnitude in which Trafalgar had become. He kept silent because he knew that his friend had never experienced the horror of Trafalgar, even though it was an English victory. The closest he, Bush, thought that his friend had experienced that was close to the horror of Trafalgar was when Hornblower had taken the _Sutherland_ into the bay to keep the French frigates from escaping. However, he would never bring it up and thus finally nodded after Hornblower finished speaking.

“Having a quiet chat without me?” interrupted a familiar-sounding voice behind Bush and Hornblower, causing the two to stop their stroll and turn around. “I’m hurt,” said Kennedy in a jesting tone that was pitched to sound quite mocking.

Genially, and looking much relieved that it was Kennedy who had interrupted their conversation, Hornblower said, “Just a morning walk to stretch and enjoy the good weather, Archie. Care to join us?”

“You mean to say getting bit by these annoying morning bugs in this humid condition is ‘good weather’?” scoffed Kennedy, though he softened the tone with a wide smile.

As the three of them slowly walked along a quiet path near the beach that was about a mile away from the docks, they talked of what happened recently and of the action each of them saw in the battle. Bush let Kennedy do most of the speaking, for Hornblower was immensely curious as to how the crew of the _Meridian_ reacted to Kennedy’s prior experience. As the conversations continued, the tone got more serious and finally hit upon a topic in which Bush saw that Hornblower had been trying to avoid, but now could no longer, for it seemed to be a dead weight hanging between all of them.

“Archie,” began Hornblower as the three of the stopped along the side of the quiet path. “The Admiralty told me that you tried to kill the King. Tell me that it is not true.”

Looking at Hornblower square in the eyes, Kennedy stated, “It is not true. I did not try to kill the King.” There seemed to be a moment after in which Hornblower wanted to ask the inevitable question as to why he had been given such a statement from the Admiralty, but it seemed that Hornblower could not bring himself to ask it.

“I should start at the beginning, I suppose,” said Kennedy after a very long moment of uncomfortable silence which was only filled with the sounds of the humming bugs and birds that dotted the tropical island. Bush saw Kennedy take a deep breath before plunging in and saying, “Both of you know that I should have been hanged for admitting to pushing Captain Sawyer down the hold. Truth be told, I was ready, but it seemed that certain peoples in the Diplomatic Corps had had their eye on me for a few years and did not want me to be hanged. Horatio, you remember when you found me in that Spanish prison and I told you I could speak Spanish? It’s true, because before I joined the _Justinian_ , my parents had enrolled me into a linguistics school, hoping that they could send me to Vienna for study when I was older and to prepare me for a role in the Corps. I learned how to speak Spanish, Italian, and various dialects of the Germanic languages.

“The Corps knew about that and intervened, and thus I was dishonorably discharged from the Navy. At that time, I did not know about what the Corps did, so what I told you about living with the Turner family are true. A year after I sent Liam to my Southhampton naval contacts, the Corps contacted me, offering me work. I did not want to impose on the Turner family any longer, especially since I sent their son to England, and took the job, hoping to be sent back to Europe to help with the war effort.

“They had me stay in the Caribbean and learn French along with some of the local natives’ languages. With my naval knowledge, I became the Corps’ eyes and ears, posing as a crew member of several different French and Spanish ships. That’s how I came about with the information on Cortez’s gold and its curse. I knew that I needed to get this information to the King, and only to the King, because the curse of three ships with undead crews was a threat that the King could not ignore. I could not tell the Admiralty directly because then the information would be known to too many and could slip into the enemies’ eyes and ears.

“Through my work in the Corps, I also found that all humans are driven by a need for power and that even lust or greed for the one thing that is unattainable will drive any man over the edge. I had hoped that the morality of the King was above excellence and would hopefully put a stop to this – to send people to sink the cursed island. However, I knew that there was a chance that the King would have me shot when I told him about Cortez’s gold and that he was as amoral as we all are. I do not mean to speak ill of our King, but my hunch right about that one.”

Bush was stunned, and as he glanced over, he saw that Hornblower’s face was unreadable, though he saw that Hornblower’s lips had thinned to a line. To speak of the King in that fashion, even after that lengthy precursor explanation, was…incredible to say the least, and Bush could almost not fathom it. ‘For King and Country’ he had heard his father say many a-times before, and it still rang true to Bush, though he was not too sure how to interpret Kennedy’s extensive role as a spy for England, for Bush felt that they always seemed a little too secretive.

“You told the King your information, and he shot you?” asked Hornblower in a neutral tone.

“Yes,” confirmed Kennedy in an unusually solemn tone. “My taking of one of the cursed coins was what saved me. The King wanted that gold to imbue his fleets with the same curse to make them invincible. He wanted to give the Royal Navy the same fate of not being able to eat, sleep, touch, and feel as was cursed upon the three French ships and their crew. The King did not want humanity left in his fleets, he wanted demons.”

“I believe you.”

Kennedy’s mouth opened and closed for a few moments as no sound came out and Bush surmised that he had been preparing a counter argument to what he thought Hornblower was going to say, but instead, was as surprised as Bush himself at the agreement to the statement about the King. Had he known of this before they had set sail to England weeks ago, on principle, he would have disagreed with Hornblower, refusing to believe that the King was as corrupt as normal men were. His surprise, now, was short-lived, for what he had witnessed on that cursed island was a testament and proof to Kennedy’s statement about the King wanting to equip his fleets with cursed gold.

Bush was not aware that they were loosing the war against Bonaparte, for headlines from the prints, even foreign ones, and the Naval Gazette always told of victories. Even at the local ale houses and sitting with fellow captains here in the Caribbean, the discussion about the progress of the war was always a good tone. That begged the question as to why His Majesty wanted that cursed gold. Bush knew that he could not answer it and would not be able to even find an answer and therefore, chose not to let it dominate his thoughts.

“Though I highly doubt that you could have sunken the island with just one keg of powder,” continued Hornblower.

“No,” said Kennedy, shaking his head slightly, “All I wanted to do was sink that chest. Had the crew of the _Dutchman_ not been there, then I was hoping to convince you not to bring the gold back.”

“So it was not you who called the _Flying Dutchman_ to the island?” asked Hornblower, and for the first time in a very long time, Bush saw a puzzled look appear on Hornblower’s face.

“How could I, Horatio?” said Kennedy. “I’d like to believe that it was out of the goodness of the captain of the _Dutchman_ ’s heart that he came to the island to sink its cursed treasure.”

“Is not the captain of the _Dutchman_ an old man?” interjected Bush, for he was still puzzled as to why his supposedly deceased first lieutenant had appeared to him with a warning about the Malagasy Fleet and had appeared during the middle of the battle. “Why then, did we witness Lieutenant Turner on the _Dutchman_?”

“It is because the _Dutchman_ must always have a captain, sir,” a quiet voice spoke up near them, seemingly coming from the direction where the water was.

If anything, Bush was starting to become accustomed to random happenings and strange occurrences that seemed to define the past few months of his life. As the three of them turned to face the source of the voice, Bush found himself not surprised to see his former first lieutenant, but was puzzled as to why Turner was standing in knee-deep water. Similar to what he had seen the night before the fleet-to-fleet battle a few days ago, Turner’s uniform was soaking wet and looked to be somewhat tattered. There was also a very pungent smell of rotten fish that wafted towards the three of them whenever the warm breeze blew by.

“What are you speaking about, Mr. Turner?” asked Bush, determined not to pass this opportunity up to ask and clarify as to why the first lieutenant, if alive, had not returned to his post on the _Meridian_ that night.

“As my crew told me, the former captain of the _Dutchman_ gave his life to save mine at the Isla de Muerta, sir,” answered Turner. “I will serve at least ten years, if not more, to the _Dutchman_ ’s mast, guiding souls lost at sea to their final resting places. That is why I could not return, sir.” Turner bent down and retrieved an object from the water that looked somewhat similar to a small sea chest, except covered in seaweed that had hints of metal peering out from underneath the draping seaweed. Instead of addressing his next words to Bush, Turner turned slightly to Kennedy and said, “Is it safe for me to assume, Mr. Kennedy, that you remember all those stories that I told you about years ago?”

The surprise that Bush initially felt was quickly erased for he realized that of course his former first lieutenant would have recognized Kennedy, but had done a marvelous work in preserving Kennedy’s alias when he had been on board the _Meridian_ as ‘Mr. Whittaker’.

“Is that what I believe it to be, Captain Turner?” asked Kennedy, taking a step towards Turner.

In the strangest of reactions towards Kennedy’s step, Bush saw Turner clutch the chest tighter to himself, as if not wanting anyone to get close to it. However, Turner did answer Kennedy’s vague and strange, at least to Bush it was vague and strange, question, saying, “It is, and though it distresses me to impose on you, Mr. Kennedy, if you could be so kind to fetch my grandfather and grandmother, assuming that they still live where I remember them to be.”

“Ah,” said Kennedy, giving what Bush thought to be a very knowing nod. “I will. It’s the least I can do.”

“Archie,” interrupted Hornblower, placing a forestalling hand on Kennedy’s shoulder before pointing to the chest and directing his question to Turner, saying, “Captain Turner, what is that?”

“Something precious that I can only entrust to my family, though only my grandfather and grandmother have a greater knowledge of this than my father or mother,” answered Turner.

“Then why not go yourself, man?” asked Bush. “Surely they would like to see you?” He did not add to his statement that he had personally handed the letter of what had seemed to be Turner’s death to the Turner family only a few days ago.

“Would I love to see them, sir,” replied Turner, “though I cannot. Those who captain the _Dutchman_ are forbidden to set foot on land for ten years. It would be an absurd and ridiculous idea for me to walk across the entirety of Kingston through buckets of water.” To Hornblower, Turner said, “I am sure that you, Commodore, and Captain Bush have quite a lot of questions. I will be happy to answer them while Mr. Kennedy fetches my grandfather and grandmother.”

Bush saw Hornblower’s forestalling hand let go and with a silent nod from Kennedy towards them, he left. Moments later, Hornblower began his questioning, starting with the events of the first apparitional sightings of the squadron weeks ago. Initially puzzled as to why Hornblower was focusing on those events, as Turner answered and told him of the specific events that had been tied to the apparitional sighting of the _Black Pearl_ and the _Interceptor_ , Bush found himself fascinated by the tale. It was more fantastic than any tale he had overheard drunken seamen talk about at any port – of pirates and of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, of the old and now burnt and destroyed Port Royal, and of the days where the golden age of high seas piracy was just about to start to wane.

He did not want to believe what was being said, but the concentrative and understanding look on Hornblower’s face proved him otherwise. In the hour that passed before Kennedy returned, Bush learned as to the exact nature of why the Norrington name had been discredited and blacklisted in the Royal Navy, along with the machinations of the East India Company and the nature of the _Flying Dutchman_. Turner had all but completed his story when the three of them heard Kennedy approach and both Bush and Hornblower turned to meet their guests.

Had Bush not seen the apparitions and heard the wild tale, he would have had a hard time believing that the two elderly people next to Kennedy, with Kennedy supporting the elderly female’s walk down to the shore by a gentlemanly arm, were indeed the legendary former pirates William Turner and ‘Pirate King’ Elizabeth Turner. Even at their advanced age, he saw their eyes light up in delight upon seeing their grandson, though he noticed that sadness had immediately eclipsed Mrs. Turner’s eyes when her gaze strayed to the chest in her grandson’s hands.

“Liam,” Bush heard Mrs. Turner say before she rushed past all of them, showing that even in her advanced age, she was still quite mobile and splashed into the water to embrace her grandson. Bush turned a bit to allow grandmother and grandson a few moments of privacy.

“Ha’h-m,” said Hornblower, quietly, turning towards the elder Mr. Turner and Kennedy before holding a hand out, saying, “Commodore Horatio Hornblower of His Majesty’s Navy, Mr. Turner. It is a pleasure to meet you, and might I say that it has been an honor working with your grandson on the _Meridian_.”

The elderly Turner shook Hornblower’s offered hand before letting go and nodding towards Bush, saying, “Captain Bush, is it not?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bush. “My apologies on the delivery of the notice to you and your family. Had I known that your grandson were still alive—“

“Life as the _Dutchman_ ’s captain will not be easy for him. It may be better this way,” said the elder Turner.

“If you do not mind me asking, sir, how so?” said Bush, as politely as he could, for he could not fathom why the elder Mr. Turner wanted to keep his grandson’s liveliness from being common knowledge.

“I’m sure he has told you about the ten years before the mast of the _Dutchman_ ,” answered the elder Turner. “That was only applicable to me, when I served as the _Dutchman_ ’s captain after Davy Jones. I had Elizabeth there to break the curse. My father who served as the captain after the curse broke for me did not have anyone to break the curse for him until he gave his life to save Liam. Liam will share the same fate as my father, serving until there is another person worth serving as the captain and to do the duties of the _Dutchman_. Then will he be able to finally rest in eternity.”

“He will not rest until his duty is done,” echoed Hornblower, though all of them fell silent as the elderly Mrs. Turner approached, splashing up to the shore, carrying the seaweed-covered chest with her. As she turned to take one last glance back, Bush and the others saw the younger Turner there for one moment and then disappear into thin air as if he had never been there in the first place.

“Come sundown, there will be a green flash,” muttered the elder Mr. Turner, taking his wife by the arms as she held the chest to her. “I thank you, Commodore Hornblower, Captain Bush, and Mr. Kennedy, for letting us know.”

“Let us walk you back, sir and madam,” said Hornblower, politely offering an arm to the elderly Mrs. Turner who gracefully took it. As they leisurely strolled through the path, towards the docks and the main road through Kingston that would take them back through the center of town, Kennedy managed to engage all of them in polite conversation, though Bush mostly stayed silent, preferring to listen. He was also inwardly smiling to himself as he listened to Hornblower converse with the more refined speech of Mrs. Turner – Hornblower’s duties in the Baltic had certainly helped him.

As they approached the docks, Bush heard a clatter of shoes on cobblestone, and the shouts of several people. They stopped as they saw a singular person leap out of a window from a corner ale house along one of the streets that led to the docks, landing quite lightly in a cart of hay. As quickly as the person dressed in an all-too-familiar-looking white bloused shirt covered in a dark vest, with dark pants and shin-high boots, and a red bandana tied around the person’s head, bound and leapt from the cart of hay, several Marines and at least two Naval officers darted around the corner of the street, guns and swords clattering.

Bush immediately recognized the two officers as Lieutenant Groves and the recently-promoted Lieutenant Norrington, and the man they were shouting and chasing after with the Marines also looked quite familiar. It wasn’t until Kennedy said, “Is that Jack Sparrow they’re chasing?” that he, Bush, recognized the pirate running away with a stream of hay trailing behind him.

“Some things never change,” said the elder Mr. Turner, shaking his head slightly. “It will always be a pirates’ life for Captain Jack Sparrow.”

 

* * *

 

It had taken weeks for Hornblower’s squadron to be refitted enough to sail back to England. The three French prize ships had been paid off and though Bush was now the wiser, he still celebrated the good fortune with both Hornblower and Kennedy, though their celebrations did not involve trying to drink Kingston dry. That had been left to the younger officers and crewmen. However, on a fine day with a good stiff breeze, the ships outfitted and restocked for the journey back home, Bush found himself, Hornblower, and Kennedy on the docks, tying up a few loose ends from their most recent voyage of duty together.

“What will you do, now that you cannot return to England or continue with your work for the Diplomatic Corps?”

Rubbing the back of his head for a moment, Kennedy gave a shrug of his shoulders that seemed reminiscent of his younger days when the three of them had served on board the _Renown_. “Honestly, Horatio,” began Kennedy, “I don’t know. The Corps sent me everywhere in the Caribbean and to various colonies along the northern South American coast. I want to explore; see more of the world.”

“Ambitious,” replied Hornblower. “If you ever become a world-famous explorer, then what shall we see your name as in the papers?”

“I haven’t thought of a name yet, though I am thinking of perhaps calling myself Leland Adams – a relative, if you will, of the former American President Adams. I believe that I can affect a convincing American accent.”

“Well then, Mr. Adams,” said Hornblower, extending a hand out towards Kennedy, “Best of luck on your journey.”

“Thank you, Commodore Hornblower,” replied Kennedy with what Bush considered a very convincing, if not absolutely solid, American accent. “I wish you the same on your return to England.” After Kennedy solidly shook Hornblower’s offered hand, he turned to Bush and said, “Captain Bush, thank you.”

“You are most kindly welcomed, Mr. Adams,” replied Bush in a formal tone. The former disgraced naval lieutenant-turned intelligence agent for His Majesty-turned soon-to-be world explorer left the docks without another look back.

 

~*~*~*~

 

FINI


End file.
